


Made of Moon and Starlight

by LittleHeda



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Azriel Too Because He's My Favorite, Comfort, Elemental Magic, Family Fluff, Gen, How Do I Tag, Magic-Users, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rhys Would Be A Good Dad So I Gave Him A Daughter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-16
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-06-11 11:45:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 28
Words: 48,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15314802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleHeda/pseuds/LittleHeda
Summary: “A child born,of black and gold.Claim her mind,and use her soul.Take her life,and forge the key,to revive the kingacross the sea.”Rhysand's daughter is being hunted by the mortal Queens, desperate to revive the King of Hybern. Without the Cauldron, they'll need a key to open a portal into the Otherworld, the land where the dead roam free. Only Celeste can forge the key, but she'll have to die to do it, draining every last drop of her magic. Her father will do whatever it takes to keep her safe, including fake her death and close down the Night Court's borders.





	1. One

Darkness crept in like a soft, caressing thing, chasing away her fears as she held her father’s hand and tried her best not to tremble. She had never been frightened by the dark; as a Princess of the Night Court, she cherished it, and as the only child of the High Lord and Lady of their land, the darkness cherished her right back.

It called to her, a whispering song that liked to rouse her from sleep in the middle of the night and draw her to the bedroom window. Her parents would find her in the morning, curled beneath the glass and with her small face turned towards the sky. Sometimes, she was covered in paint, and sometimes, the shadows danced at her fingertips, scattering when her mother came to wake her.

Rhysand swept her into his arms, his magic knocking gently against the adamant barrier in her mind. It wavered, trembling just as her hands did, and he pressed a kiss to her temple. “It’s all right,” he whispered in her ear, stroking the back of her hair, midnight black and woven through the moon-shaped jewels of her crown. “There is no one here who will hurt you.”

“Will Cassian and Azriel be there?” she asked, curling into her father’s chest. His footsteps echoed down the glistening hallway of moonstone, faelight illuminating the walls and giving them an iridescent shine. Shadows flickered and sang to her, reaching towards her outstretched hand and twisting in tendrils against her palm. She smiled, her violet eyes brightening with mirth.

“Yes,” her father said to her, manipulating the dark to twist and furl around her fingers. He knew of the comfort that it brought her. “Amren and Mor, too. You have nothing to fear, Celeste darling. It’s only a ball.”

She laid her head against his shoulder. “I have never met the other High Lords,” Celeste reminded him, picking at the lapels of his jacket. Her fingernails scratched at the stars embroidered in silver thread near his collar. “Only Tarquin. Perhaps the others won’t like me.”

Rhys withheld his frown, the ache of an old pain settling like a stone inside his chest.

There was a time when the girl’s mother had feared what the High Lords thought of her, damaged in every way by the time she’d spent with Tamlin in the Spring Court. He had watched her wither away, watched the light as it dimmed in her eyes, become nothing more than flesh stretched tightly over bone. Feyre had come a long way since, but he would never forget what had been done to her, how his mate had been wronged, tortured; a beautiful girl on the arm of the male who had broken her.

“What the others think of you doesn’t matter,” he said, casting a shield over her mind, a glamour to convince her that all was well. The tension began to seep out of her, but still she reached for the dark, her fingers grasping at the shadows. Rhys smiled and sent them curling into her palms. “They’re here to celebrate your birthday, and the night is yours, my little love.”

“Why should they care?” she questioned, her jeweled head quirked to look up at him. There was nothing human that burned in her amethyst eyes, flecks of silver glistening in their depths like starlight. “I’m not a Princess of their Courts, and Uncle Cassian said that they only came here for the wine. My birthday is nothing special.”

 _Remind me to throttle Cassian_ , Rhys sent down the mating bond. Feyre’s laugh flowed back to him as he placed Celeste on the ground, her feet hitting the brimstone with a gentle thud. _Perhaps you’ll help me, Feyre darling, as he’s convinced our child that tonight is not worth celebrating_.

Silence, and then, _Mor just spilled her wine on him_.  

Rhys chuckled. _Serves the bastard right_. 

Celeste took his hand again, her own hand small against his calloused fingers and palm. She gripped it tight as they neared the ballroom, her sparkling black dress adorned with diamonds cut to look like stars. Rhys held her close, and the shadows clung to her heels, a silent reminder that they were hers to beckon if she were in need.

“Father,” she said, tucking a loose curl back behind the delicate point of her ear. Rhys looked down at her and smiled. “Will I be the High Lady of the Night Court someday?” 

His smile faltered. “Perhaps,” Rhys told her. “But that is not for me to decide. Should your mother and I have any more children, I suppose the Cauldron will choose who to honor.”

He saw the flicker of fear that burned in her eyes, a flash and then it was gone. Rhys dropped to one knee, onto the dark tattoo of a mountain topped by three stars, the insignia of the Night Court and his people; a permanent reminder that he would bow to nothing and no one but his crown. And Feyre. And perhaps, now, his daughter.

He took her face between his hands, and Celeste leaned into the warmth of his palm. “So long as your mother and I still breathe,” Rhys said to her, his voice a whisper in the shadows. “The Night Court is our burden to bear. The High Lords pose as no threat to you.”

Celeste swallowed, black diamonds sparkling around her slender throat—a gift from Amren for her birthday. “I suppose I'm already in Tarquin’s favor,” she mused, twisting the pearl ring on her index finger, a gift from the High Lord of the Summer Court. “And mother says that the others are old, cranky males.”

Rhys breathed a laugh, pressing a kiss to her brow. “I have no doubt that you will charm your way into their hearts. It’s been a long time since a High Lord has been graced with a youngling. You’re the first in many centuries,” he fixed her crown as a tendril of darkness gently tapped her on the nose. She giggled. “You, my darling girl, were made of moon and starlight, and you have nothing to fear.”


	2. Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ask, and I guess you shall receive. Lol. I couldn't let go of this scene quite yet, and I might decide to keep going.

The whispers of an ancient harp floated from the center of the ballroom, rising above the crowd of invited guests and High Lords. It was beautiful, a soft legato that told the stories of Prythian; of their world as it was created by the Cauldron. Celeste found herself entranced, her amethyst eyes glued to the strings as they were plucked, the culprit of such a wonderful sound. She hardly noticed that the rest of the room had gone silent.

Her father squeezed her hand.

Celeste blinked her eyes, trapped in the music’s thrall until the closing notes crescendoed into a final scene, the final battle for their freedom, then crashed throughout the ballroom with victory. It sank into every crack and every crevice, blending in beautiful disarray with the shadows that danced along the walls. Celeste reached out a hand, pleading for the harpist to continue, but the lesser faerie had lowered her fingers from the strings.

Rhysand squeezed her hand again, his thumb brushing against the inside of her wrist. “Perhaps I’ll ask her to give you lessons,” he mused. Celeste tipped her head back and looked up at him, her pale eyes sparkling beneath the faelights. Rhys smiled at her. “So much like your mother.”

As if called for, Feyre swept through the crowd; they parted for her, a sea of High Lords and courtesans careening from the High Lady’s path. She looked beautiful tonight, and even Rhysand held his breath as his mate sauntered quickly towards the dais. Her silver dress shimmered against the moonstone walls, the chiffon cut to reveal the length of her legs as it pooled against the marble at her feet.

A living star; a light in his never-ending darkness. His Feyre, his High Lady of the Night Court.

She kissed him gently as she approached, her fingers tracing over the delicately sharp angles of his face. “You’re late,” she murmured against his mouth, her free hand slipping around his waist. “You certainly like to make an entrance.”

“Don’t blame me,” Rhysand told her, glancing pointedly at their child. “Nuala and Cerridwen fussed over her dress and hair for two hours. Had I not stolen her away, I’m certain she’d have missed her own party.”

Feyre kissed his cheek. _She’s afraid, isn’t she?_

 _Yes_ , Rhys replied through their mating bond. Feyre’s magic prodded at the barrier in his mind, black adamant that cracked open just enough to allow her to slip inside. She was met with his memories from the hall, Celeste’s amethyst eyes flashing with fear at the horror of someday being High Lady. Feyre felt the weight that cleaved open inside of Rhysand’s chest as he noted her insecurity with a frown, as he promised that she had nothing to fear.

 _You, my darling girl, are made of moon and starlight, and you have nothing to fear_.

She took a breath in through her nose, her eyes fluttering as she raised her shields and withdrew from the darkness of Rhys’ mind. “Celeste,” Feyre murmured, holding out a hand and beckoning the child to her. She skirted around Rhys’s legs, plummeting into the safety of her mother’s arms as Feyre lifted and held her. “My beautiful girl,” she said, pressing a kiss to her temple. “Don’t be afraid.”

“They’re staring,” Celeste said quietly, meeting Feyre’s gaze. “Like they’re predators and I’m their prey.”

Rhys took a casual step closer, his arm wrapping around Feyre’s waist as he slowly surveyed the ballroom. Indeed, the High Lords were watching them, wary of the girl who had inherited Rhys’ power. Tarquin was the only one smiling, his hands clasped together behind his back as he pretended to indulge in the dancers. Cressida was draped on his arm, his date for the evening because his mate was sick in the Summer Court.

“They’re staring,” Rhys said. “Because they’ve never met anyone quite like you. They’re curious, and if I might be so bold as to point out, they’re far more afraid of you than you are of them,” Rhys’ smile was only the slightest bit wicked. “You’re the daughter of the most powerful High Lord in Prythian history. They’d be stupid not to be scared of you.”

Celeste quirked her head. “I don’t find myself all that frightening.”

Her parents chuckled. Rhys pressed a kiss to her brow before motioning Feyre down the dais. “It’s rude to leave them all waiting,” he said, guiding his mate down the marble steps with a gentle hand pressed into her back. “Tarquin is beside himself. He’s missed his partner in crime. Speaking of which,” he raised his eyebrows in warning. “I don’t suppose that you and the High Lord have plans to flood the ballroom?”

She stifled a laugh behind her fingers, no doubt recalling their trip to the Summer Court last spring. “No, father,” Celeste told him sweetly, her pale eyes filling with mirth. “Tarquin and I only flooded _his_ ballroom because Varian and Amren were insufferable, and because he was teaching me how to control my water magic.”

“Semantics,” Rhys drawled. “Do not flood my ballroom.”

Nodding, Celeste’s spirits were lifted as they approached the High Lord of the Summer Court. Tarquin was the epitome of grace, dressed in the thick blue fabrics of his Court, his white hair tied back and braided. He smiled at them, passing his goblet of wine to Cressida before bowing low at the waist. “Rhysand, Feyre,” he greeted, then held out his hand to Celeste. She took it, and he bent is head to press a kiss to her fingers. “Happy Birthday, little Lady.”

Her smile was radiant. “Thank you, Lord Tarquin,” Celeste responded, ever the child with perfect manners. “I’ve missed you. How’s Chantara? I heard she’s not been feeling well.”

Tarquin brightened at the mention of his made, pride swelling inside his chest. “She sends her love and well wishes,” he told her, then met Rhysand’s eyes and offered him a smile near blinding. “She’s with child, due this winter. She was afraid to travel so far.”

“Congratulations,” Feyre gushed merrily, and Tarquin knew that she meant it. “I wish you’d sent word. I’d have winnoed in to see her. She was a godsend during my pregnancy with Celeste.”

Rhysand held out his hand in offering. Tarquin clasped his forearm. “Congratulations, old friend. You’re more than deserving of such a blessing.You’ll make an excellent father,” Rhys meant it, too, just as Feyre. There was no threat to be found in Tarquin’s child, not as there was in Celeste. “I expect it to be named after me if it’s a son.”

His laugh was boisterous as he clapped Rhysand on the shoulder. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Her night was spent meeting with the High Lords, some who deigned to speak with her, and some who chose to ignore her. All of them sized up her power, feeling for her with flickering tendrils of their magic. Rhys’ darkness lashed at them from the tips of his fingers, feral with the need to protect his young from their prying. She did not pose as a threat to them. Not now. Not with her lack of training.

Rhysand danced with her when Celeste grew wary, spinning her round and round on the marble floor until she was giggling gleefully into his shoulder. He dipped her, twisted her, tossed her into the air where she held out her arms and pretended to fly like an Illyrian. Celeste wished she could summon her wings, sparkling black and gold membrane stretched across a bone frame that could hardly support her weight. Azriel was still teaching her how to fly, but until her wings grew stronger, less fragile, she could only hover above the ground, a few quick flaps and she was drained.

They were nearing the dais when it happened—the bone shattering silence that Rhys felt shake him to his core. Celeste felt it, too, withdrawing into her father’s chest as the Night Court surrounded them in an instant. Feyre flanked her mate’s left, her magic wrapping Celeste in a shield of star-flecked darkness, and Amren stood simmering to their right, second in command to her High Lord and Lady.

“Morrigan,” Rhys hissed. His cousin was there before he could finish her name. “Take Celeste.”

She gathered the child into her arms, balancing her on a jewel-encrusted hip as she carried her up onto the dais, preparing to winnow her if need be. Cassian and Azriel stood guard on the step beneath them, their wings spread wide to cover Mor and Celeste.

Azriel was death incarnate, a storm of shadows given flesh. Truth-teller was grasped in his fist, a dagger older than Prythian that made even the strongest warriors quake in its presence. Shadows curled tightly over his shoulders, dancing against the black Illyrian leathers of his armor, waiting for the Shadowsinger’s command. And he gave it, sending them back to Celeste, ordering them to wrap her in their embrace.

Beside him, between him and Cassian, was his son. Amael’s wings were tucked in tightly behind him, shifting with the need to spread and fly. His sword was flimsy and bronze, an old metal thing used for training, but he held it reverently in front of him. Shadows flickered at his heels, a Shadowsinger just like his father, but he hardly knew how to control them.

“Amael,” Azriel murmured, his voice the whisper of death. “Stay with Celeste. Protect and serve, as I’ve taught you.”

The Illyrian stumbled back, knocked even further by Azriel’s wing as he corralled his son towards Celeste. Mor grabbed him by the back of his dark tunic and wrapped her arm over his shoulders, an unyielding force who would lay down her life for these children; she would protect them as though they were her own.

Celeste wriggled nervously in Mor’s arms, reaching for Amael’s outstretched hand as he shot his wing out in front of her. She squeezed his fingers, his small hand hardly larger than her own, but calloused already from his training. Seven years old to her five, but Amael was the girl’s closest friend, and he had sworn an oath to protect her.

Rhysand shoved his hands into his pockets, a wall of darkness sealing off the entrances to the ballroom. He quirked his head and with a predators gaze, the Lord of Night smiled wickedly. “How nice of you to arrive late, Tamlin. What, dare I ask, are you doing here?”

The High Lord of the Spring Court crossed his arms. “I was invited," he said. "It'd be rude if I didn't make an appearance."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, nay? Keep going?


	3. Three.

The antechamber beyond the dais was a small cavern of brimstone, dark, narrow, and suffocating if stood in for too long, and it was here that Rhysand invited Tamlin. The two of them together hardly fit, Tamlin’s broad shoulders brushing against a pillar of black rock as he angled himself towards his fellow High Lord. He crossed his arms over the wide expanse of his chest, and it was all Rhys could do not to crush his mind when Tamlin glanced sideways into the ballroom, his emerald eyes searching for his mate.

It had been ten years since the war against Hybern had left Prythian in a precarious state of peace; it had been five years since the High Lord of the Spring Court had shut down his borders and declared crossing into his lands an act of war. No one had heard from him since, and even Lucien had been barred from visiting, though he’d tried.

“She’s beautiful,” Tamlin breathed, and there was longing there, a decades-long yearning for Feyre, the bride who had been stolen out from under him. She was beauty and grace and starlight, the moon given flesh as she twirled through the ballroom with her child, a girl with a face just as striking.

Rhys clicked his tongue, rooting through Tamlin’s mind as darkness danced at his fingertips, hiding the talons that were growing there. The desire, the memories, the wicked things that Tamlin would do if given the chance to be with Feyre… An icy calm settled over him, and only _he_ could envision tearing that dress from her body. “There are plenty of beautiful women here tonight,” Rhys drawled lazily. “Perhaps you should be more specific. I can introduce you to someone, if you’d like. You must be getting lonely if you came all this way for a party.”

His temper flared, and with it came a burst of his power. A fierce wind plowed through the confines of the chamber, sweeping into the ballroom and ruffling the skirts of nearby Ladies. Rhys wagged his finger as though to scold him, throwing up a shield to prevent Tamlin’s magic from escaping again. He would not ruin Celeste's party; his appearance had caused enough chaos. “You always were bad with women. Lifting their skirts is hardly a proper way to say hello.”

“Shut up,” Tamlin snarled, palming the knife that was sheathed against his thigh. Rhysand pretended not to notice. “If you’d stop being such an arrogant bastard, you’d be grateful that I arrived when I did. I have news from the continent pertaining to the mortal Queens.”

Rhys blinked, the only surprise he would show. “Out with it, then. Stop lusting over my mate and tell me. What have you heard?”

Tamlin leaned against the brimstone pillar, his weight sagging into the rock as though the male were exhausted; like the gust of wind had drained him. “The humans are whispering about a prophecy, no doubt foretold by the crone who escaped from the Cauldron,” Tamlin dared another glance into the ballroom, something akin to fear shining in the whites of his eyes. “They speak of Hybern’s resurrection, of a way to bring him back.”

A startled laugh escaped from him, one that Rhysand quickly stifled against his hand. Mortal audacity was astounding. “They would have to find the Cauldron first,” Rhys told him drily. “And Feyre and I hid it well. Only a fool would go looking for it.”

“They don’t plan on using the Cauldron,” Tamlin countered, and it was genuine concern that softened the words as he spoke them. “The prophecy speaks of a key, one that must be forged with a sacrifice. It’s said to open a portal into the Otherworld, where Hybern lurks and is waiting. The mortal Queens have been biding their time and waiting for someone who’s strong enough; someone whose magic can forge the key if drained to the very last drop.”

Rhys stuffed his hands into the pockets of dress pants. “If this is your way of telling me not to forge any keys,” he said. “Then duly noted. I have no desire to revive Hybern.”

“The prophecy doesn’t speak of you,” Tamlin told him, shifting apprehensively on his feet. “You couldn’t create the key, though perhaps you may try once I tell you, if only to save the forger.”

He raised an eyebrow, and although Tamlin was far from his favor, he would admit that his interest was piqued—even if he didn’t quite believe him. “And what, pray tell, is the prophecy?”

Tamlin turned entirely towards the ballroom as he recited the prophecy from memory, words that he had spoken a thousand times to ensure that he got it right.

“ _A child born,_

_of black and gold._

_Claim her mind,_

_and use her soul._

_Take her life,_

_and forge the key_

_to revive the king_

_across the sea_.”

“Poetic,” Rhysand chided, finding a sudden interest in his hands, his fingernails shifting into talons again—a warning to stop wasting his time. “And who, dare I ask, does your prophecy refer to if not me?”

“Your daughter.”

The snarl that tore from the back of Rhysand’s throat was feral. Darkness lashed into the chamber, pinning Tamlin to the brimstone with tendrils wrapped around his throat. He grunted, but met Rhys’ gaze unabashed. He would not show him fear. Rhys had barreled over the shields in his mind, pushed over an invisible edge that others had dared not to cross, and had sank into the pits of his power. The faelights in the ballroom winked out, one by one, until his guests were consumed by the shadows spilling from his palms.

“How _dare_ you,” Rhys spat, his violet eyes flashing black as he, too, was consumed. “Come to my home and threaten the life of my child.”

Tamlin choked down a breath, his fingers shifting into claws as blind rage stirred from within him. “I’m no threat to her,” he said through his teeth, swallowing it back and stifling it. “I came here to warn you about the Queens. My mind is open to you, Rhysand. Search it. I did not come here to harm her.”

His magic tore into Tamlin’s mind, vicious and wicked and cruel, invited there by the High Lord’s beckoning. With talons of glistening black adamant, he left carnage amongst the memories that lingered there. He was not gentle as he foraged into the depths of Tamlin’s mind, spiraling into cracked sunlight smothered by guilt and regret.

_Feyre, the day of their wedding, clothed in that awful white dress._

_Feyre, the day Mor had saved her, demanding that Tamlin take her with him._

_Feyre, that night with the King, her sisters thrown mercilessly into the Cauldron_.

_A General from yesterday morning, broken beneath Tamlin’s whip, confessing the plans of his Queens._

A gasp, and Rhysand snapped out of his mind. His hands trembled as Tamlin fell to the floor, panting and sucking down air, the shadows gone from his throat. “No,” Rhysand rasped, shaken straight to the core, his bones quaking inside of him. “She’s a _child_. She can’t possibly be so strong as to—”

“She is,” Tamlin said hoarsely, rubbing at his neck with scarred and calloused fingers. “And she’s only going to grow stronger. Your power dwells inside of her, Rhys, and so does Feyre’s. She’ll be a force to be reckoned with if you don’t find a way to contain her.”

“ _Contain her_ ,” Rhys spat. His stomach churned, and the birthday cake that he'd eaten was threatening to make a reappearance. “Like you tried to contain Feyre?”

Tamlin clenched his jaw as he forced himself back onto his feet. “I’ll admit that how I treated her was a mistake. I never should have locked her up. But if you don’t find a way to put a damper on your child’s power, Rhys, the Queen’s are going to come looking for her. They’re already on the hunt, waiting until she proves her strength. One tantrum, and—”

“Celeste doesn’t have tantrums,” Rhys sneered, shadows twining around his temples. “She’s happy—she’s _always_ happy. Feyre and I see to that.”

“All I’m saying, Rhysand, is that you need to stifle her power. Smother it. They'll use it to track her to your city, wherever it may be, and your wards won't be enough to protect her,” Tamlin raked a hand through his hair. “I didn’t come here to fight with you.”

He pushed out a breath through his nose, and darkness skittered across the floor, corralling into the corners of the chamber. “Then why _did_ you come here?” Rhysand inquired, but there were no bite to his words, only a raw, aching curiosity. “Why did you think to warn me?”

“Because a child shouldn’t suffer for her parents mistakes,” Tamlin answered stiffly. “And because in another life, had you not stolen Feyre from me, perhaps Celeste would have been mine. I cannot punish her for what should have been.”

He shook his head. “Get out,” Rhys said calmly, but there were flames dancing in his eyes. “Go home. And do not speak of what was said here.”

Tamlin frowned. _Ungrateful bastard_. “And what will you do about Celeste?” 

“Whatever it takes to keep her safe.” 

He said it with such conviction that Tamlin was inclined to believe him. Perhaps Rhysand was an arrogant son-of-a-bitch, but Tamlin had no doubt that the High Lord would tear apart Prythian if it meant keeping his child safe. He had no doubt that he loved her as fiercely as he did Feyre, if not just a little bit more. It was with a single, quick jerk of his head in understanding that Tamlin left him to scheme, winnowing from the antechamber and retreating back to his own lands. Rhys could do as he pleased, and Tamlin could live without the guilt of having kept the prophecy a secret just to see Rhysand suffer.

Rhys nearly dropped to his knees, to the stars and the mountains tattooed there, and it was here that Feyre found him, propped against a pillar of stone to keep himself standing. “Rhys,” she murmured, cradling his face between her palms, her thumb stroking his cheek. “What did he want?”

Distraught, Rhys lowered his shields, allowing her into his mind. She crawled gently through the cracks in his barrier, a caressing touch of magic pressing against the adamant wall as she sifted through the memories of Tamlin, of the news that he had brought from the continent. “Rhysand…”

“Take her home,” Rhys croaked, and it was fear that shone in his eyes, genuine terror the likes of which Feyre had never seen from him. “Winnow her back to Velaris. I’ll handle things here.”

Feyre’s fingers trembled as she reached for Rhys’ hand and squeezed it. His skin was cold as ice, shadows lingering against his palms. Feyre chased them away, her own darkness sweeping in as she warmed his hand with her fire. “What will you do?”

Rhys pressed a kiss to her brow. She could feel his icy breath against her cheek. “Take Celeste home,” he said again, a silent promise to do what needed to be done. “She certainly must be tired. She’s danced with everyone here.”

“Indeed she has,” Feyre said warily, then, “This is the last time she’ll see these people, isn’t it.” It wasn’t a question.

“Take her home.”

 _Please_ , Rhys added down the bond, desperate. _Just trust me_.

 _I'll always trust you_.

Feyre swept from the antechamber in a flurry of silver starlight, Rhysand close behind. He watched his mate cross the ballroom, to where Celeste was dancing with Amael, and gather her up into her arms. Feyre took the Illyrian boy by the hand, too, squeezing it once to reassure him that everything was fine, and a moment later they were gone.

Perched at the bottom of the dais, Morrigan met Rhys' gaze, pressed between Cassian and Azriel. Shadows curled at their feet, and Azriel was fixated on the space where his son had just stood, laughing and twirling with Celeste, the Princess caught between his wings. Azriel had never seen him so happy, had never seen him smile so wide. His face was carved with calm fury at the disruption. 

 _Rhys…_ Mor said into his mind, cautious of the Illyrians that flanked her, of the Shadowsinger that worried for his son. _What did Tamlin want?_

 _Winnow them home,_ Rhys demanded _. Now. Feyre will tell you what’s happened_.

He saw Mor grit her teeth, saw her brow furrow at the order, but his cousin would not question him. She took Cassian’s hand, then Azriel’s, and then they, too, were gone.

Rhys’ magic burst through the ballroom, a glamour shielding the minds of those who had come here to celebrate. His eyes fluttered with the effort. “If I may have your attention,” he announced, and the jovial atmosphere turned sad, mournful, the happiness ripped from the room. “There’s been an accident. Celeste, whose birthday you came here to celebrate, was poisoned.”

Whispers stirred from the crowd, and somewhere, Tarquin let out a gasp, his memories of the evening skewed. Gone were the moments he’d spent spinning Celeste on the dance floor. _I remember hearing her cry for Rhysand_ , he thought. _I remember hearing Feyre scream_. Rhys cast the image into his mind, into all their minds, and took a staggering breath as he continued.

“My daughter did not survive,” he said evenly. “And her mother and I are in mourning, as is the rest of my Court. You will leave here, and you will mourn for her, too. You will remember this night as one of chaos, not of merry celebration.”

A cry—Cressida, clinging to Tarquins arm. Rhys swallowed. He did not want to lie to them, but if it kept Celeste safe, he would do it. He would deceive all of Prythian. 

“The Night Court’s borders are closed, and they will remain that way until further notice,” Rhys’ magic buckled, the weight of his lie and strength of his glamour draining him. “Go home. The party is over. Feyre and I appreciate your condolences.”

Rhys didn’t wait for Amren to usher them out, and with the promise to return for her later, he winnowed home to Velaris, to his daughter, to the remainder of his Court that was waiting for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the deletion and re-post! I had to make some changes because I shouldn't write at 2am. Lol.
> 
> The next chapter will be a time jump, though! I never planned on this being a full-fledged fic, but my brain has been spinning nonstop with ideas, so here we are. I know the first two chapters were light and fluffy, and then here's this monster of an update, but hopefully I did a well enough job setting up the story. I feel like this chapter is weak, but I promise I'll make up for it in the next chapter! 
> 
> And yes, I stole the concept of a "key" from Throne of Glass. Lol. Only instead of Aelin (or Dorian) having to die to destroy the wyrdkey, someone has to die to create it. And in this case, that's Celeste. Or is it?


	4. Four.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the second update for today, so make sure you read the chapter before this one!

**—12 Years Later—**

As a Shadowsinger, Amael found comfort in the dark. He found comfort in the shadows that swirled in the corners of his room, waiting and beckoning to be called upon. They reached for him, sang to him, whispered their secrets into his ear, and Amael whispered his back. His shadows had seen more of his heart than his father had, than Celeste had, than anyone else in the Night Court, and he treasured them. They were indeed his closest confidant.

But the darkness that crept into his bedroom was not kind. It did not speak to him. It was pain and agony and fear, seeping beneath the crack of his bedroom door and dimming the candle on his nightstand. There were no stars that flickered in these shadows, no glimmer of hope to be found, only despair, and Amael closed his book. He’d known what tonight would bring when Celeste had spent the better part of the day rubbing the space between her eyes, and he had stayed up late in preparation for it.

When the screaming began, Amael rose from his bed, tossing his book onto the nightstand. His wings flared behind him as he expertly padded through the dark, having walked this same path almost every night for years. The hallway beyond his bedroom door was nothing more than a black void, no signs of the shimmering moonstone walls or the marble floor beneath his feet. Shadows whirled around him, but Amael paid them no mind. They scattered, perhaps afraid of the frightened girl who had summoned them.

Her bedroom door was cracked, and as always, Rhysand and Feyre had beaten him here. The former had crawled onto the bed, his back resting against the ornately carved iron headboard as he cradled Celeste in his arms. She was screaming, and already her voice was hoarse, but she would not open her eyes.

Rhysand’s magic was prodding at the barriers in her mind, searching for a crack in the steel that would let him inside. “Celeste,” he murmured, combing his fingers through her hair, knotted and tangled from her thrashing. “Celeste, I’m here. You’re all right. I need you to wake up. I need you to come back to me.”

The High Lord of the Night Court was tired, and his Lady faired no better. Feyre stood at the foot of the bed, her slender fingers placed over her mouth to stifle any whimpers that came from her. Tears hang heavily from her lashes, and Amael had half a mind to go to her. But Morrigan was already there, her arm around Feyre’s waist, the only comfort that she could offer.

Celeste screamed again, writhing in Rhysand’s arms. Amael could hear the frantic beating of her heart, the occasional skip or stall as though the strain of her cries were too much. His own heart cracked inside his chest, bleeding and raw and desperate to somehow save her. He’d do anything to take this pain from her, to shoulder the burden in her place. 

“We can’t keep doing this,” Feyre rasped, collapsing onto the edge of the bed and pulling Mor down with her. “Neither can she. It’s killing her, Rhysand. The magic is going to kill her. It’s too much.” 

He closed his eyes, pressing his brow to Celeste’s forehead. Rhys’ magic was beginning to buckle, drained from all the nights he’d spent delving into her mind to wake her, to pull her from the pits of her magic before it consumed her entirely. “Celeste,” he pleaded, brushing his thumb across her cheek. “Fight it. Open your eyes.”

“Rhys,” Mor called to him, but the High Lord did not turn to her. He did not acknowledge her. “Feyre’s right. Celeste can’t control her magic. She doesn’t know how. You have to let her train, if only to give her a chance,” she squeezed Feyre’s hand as Celeste screamed again. “Meditation isn’t helping her anymore. If you’d just let Amren work with her—”

“No,” he snarled, his own darkness joining Celeste’s shadows. “She is _not_ developing her powers, not even to learn how to control them. I will not give the mortal Queens a reason to come looking for her. If they find out she’s still alive and that she’s capable of creating that Cauldrons-damned key—”

“And letting her suffer is a better alternative?” Morrigan met his gaze as Rhysand looked up and glared at her. “Look at her, Rhys. She’s so far down in her magic that you can’t even reach her. You’re scared for her, and I understand that. We all are. But she cannot go on like this. Feyre’s right—it’s killing her.”

Amael didn’t know what moved him, his feet shuffling towards the edge of Celeste’s bed on their own accord. Perhaps it was the thought of her dying. Perhaps it was the strangled cry that escaped through her lips as she screamed again, the tendons in her neck strained and taut from the effort. Rhysand’s eyes flashed to Amael’s face, and he might have warned him to stay away if the Illyrian didn’t seem so desperate.

He sat himself on the edge of the bed, his wings tucked in behind him. Gently, so gently, Amael took Celeste by the hand, the cobalt siphon fashioned around his wrist gleaming in the dark. “Celeste,” he whispered, and Feyre was beside herself as Celeste fell still in Rhysand’s arms. Amael blinked and quirked his head, his dark hair sliding over his shoulders. “Celeste, can you hear me?”

Rhysand drew in a breath, his magic slipping through a crack in her mind. “Keep talking to her.”

“You’re dreaming,” Amael continued, stroking the back of her hand with his thumb. She whimpered, her fingers curling around his wrist in response. “You’re safe. Find your way back, and open your eyes.”

“Amael,” Celeste cried, her fingernails digging into his hand. “I can’t find you.”

He shifted closer upon Rhysand’s beckoning, a silent plea to do what the High Lord could not: bring her back. Amael pressed his palm to her cheek, her flushed skin radiating warmth. “I’m here,” he promised her. He felt her lean into his touch. “Let your shields down. Rhys will find you.”

“I’ve got her,” Rhys murmured, his magic grabbing hold of her mind and hauling her back from the dark; pulling her back onto the ledge that she had slipped over. “I’ve got her.”

It was with a grasping breath that Celeste opened her eyes, tears streaming down her cheeks before Amael could wipe them away. The shadows vanished a moment later, slithering into the corners of her room and hiding there; Amael sent them away entirely, out of Celeste’s reach to be beckoned.

She wriggled in her father’s arms, her body quaking with fear. Rhysand pressed a kiss to her temple, and a soothing calm washed over her, his magic a gentle embrace. Celeste buried her face into his chest, a quiet sob escaping from her. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m so sorry.”

Amael rose from the bed, and Feyre joined them, smoothing down the back of Celeste’s hair. “It’s not your fault,” her mother told her, glancing pointedly at her mate. “You can’t control it. You have absolutely nothing to apologize for.”

“I couldn’t come back,” Celeste rasped, her fingers curling into the fabric of Rhys’ shirt. “I was lost. I couldn’t find my way back. There was a ledge, and I fell over it, and there was no bottom. I couldn’t climb back to the top,” another sob broke from her. “I couldn’t find my way back.”

“We’ll fix this,” Rhys swore to her. His chest ached as though Celeste had reached inside of him, her small hand wrapping around his heart and squeezing it. “I will find some way to fix this.”

Celeste twisted in her father’s arms, her amethyst eyes searching the room for the Illyrian who had saved her from the dark. “I heard you,” she breathed, her fingers trembling as she reached out a hand for him to take. Amael squeezed her fingers, leaning against the nightstand beside her bed. His hip bumped against the corner. “I’ve never heard you before.”

“I’ve never tried to reach you before,” he countered quietly. “But I was scared. Rhys couldn’t get to you this time.”

Her eyes welled with more tears. “I’m sorry,” Celeste said to him, blinking as though to will them away. “I hate that I cause you such trouble. You have training in the morning, and you’ll be tired. Cassian will beat you senseless.”

“Cassian understands,” Amael promised her. “And I wasn’t asleep, anyway. I was reading.”

Morrigan slipped out of the room, chasing Nesta and Elain out into the hall. Amael had never noticed them squeezed beneath the threshold, Lucien hulking over Elain with a gentle hand pressed against her shoulder. 

His father was there, too, hidden amongst the shadows where only Amael could see him, his dark eyes shining with concern. Azriel had watched Amael go to her, and fear had licked up his spine as his son coaxed Celeste from the dark. Too many times he’d seen her lash out at Rhysand, trapped in the magic’s thrall and unaware of what she was doing.

Shadows curled around Amael’s shoulders, twining up his neck and into his ears. “It was foolish of you to go near her,” his father whispered. “Rhysand would have eventually gotten through to her. She could have hurt you.”

Amael clenched his jaw and ignored him. He would never apologize where Celeste was concerned.

“It’s late,” Rhysand said quietly. “Do you think you can try and sleep? I know you must be exhausted.”

Celeste’s eyes flashed with fear, but as darkness whirled from her palms, Amael chased it away, his shadows flickering at its edges. She looked at him and closed her hands, her fingernails cutting into her palms. She couldn’t sleep— _wouldn’t_ sleep—lest she fall back into the pit of her magic. “Will you stay with me?” Celeste asked him, and Amael blinked his surprise. “Your shadows…”

He glanced apprehensively at Rhysand. “Is that all right?”

Rhys studied him, the Illyrian he had helped Azriel raise, and gauged the size of his wings. Celeste’s bed was small, and unless Amael’s wings hung over the edge onto the floor, they would have to lay close to both fit. But either he was tired or he just didn’t care, because Rhysand gave a nod of his head. “So long as you realize that this bed is _only_ meant for sleeping, I don’t mind if you stay.”

His cheeks flushed. “Yes, sir.”

It was a brief few moments or shuffling, Rhysand and Feyre climbing from the bed as Celeste nestled down beneath the blankets. Her mother tucked her in, then fussed with a second silk comforter when Amael laid down beside her, his wings exposed to the icy chill of the room. He chuckled. “Thank you, Feyre.”

The High Lady kissed his forehead. “Thank _you_ ,” she countered, and Amael knew what she meant.

Feyre chased Rhysand from the room, waving him through the door before closing it quietly behind them. A heartbeat passed, then two, and then Celeste slid across the bed, into the warmth and safety of Amael’s arms. She buried her face into his chest. “I’m sorry,” she told him again. “I didn’t mean to worry you.”

His wing closed around her, the soft, membraneous skin sparkling gold and red. “Don’t apologize,” Amael scolded gently. “Now try and close your eyes. Cassian may very well beat me into oblivion if I show up in the Steppes half asleep tomorrow.”

She looked up at him, and it was the panic in her eyes that reminded him Celeste was afraid of the dark.

“You’re safe,” Amael promised her. “The darkness and shadows won’t touch you. Not while I’m here.”

She curled against him, draped beneath the canopy of his wing. “My Shadowsinger,” Celeste murmured, and indeed, exhaustion took hold of her, its talons sinking in deep. “My knight in Illyrian leathers.”

Amael chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound that brought a smile to her face. “Goodnight, Celeste.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So! There was a twelve year time jump! Celeste is now 17 years old, and Rhys has kept her hidden in Velaris. The remaining High Lords believe her to be dead, and no one knows otherwise except for the Inner Circle.


	5. Five.

Celeste did not leave her bed the following morning, even after Amael had kissed her cheek and quietly slipped from the room. She did not speak when Feyre came and told her good morning; she did not eat when Rhysand brought her food and left it on the desk beneath her window. He’d opened the curtains before he left, allowing golden sunlight to flit about the room and confine the shadows to the corners. Celeste had lowered her mental shields long enough to say thank you, then had snapped them back up before her magic could slip through the cracks.

Their house on the bank of the Sidra was quiet; even birds were apprehensive to chirp near Celeste’s bedroom window. The currents of the river were a lull in the never-ending silence, a white-noise that Celeste latched on to, if only to keep a grasp on her senses. She felt numb, the magic prowling beneath her skin having sank into her bones and settled there, waiting for the next time to strike. It would not be long, she knew, before that darkness would erupt and cast her back into the shadows.

It was noon when her bedroom door cracked open again, her father slipping inside on near-silent feet. Rhysand perched himself on the edge of her bed, rooting through the blankets until he found her hand and squeezed it. “You can’t lock yourself up in here,” he told her quietly, and for the first time in his nearly 600 years, the High Lord felt his age. He was tired, his bones aching in a way that they never had before. He was middle-aged by Fae standards, but he should not feel this way.

Celeste could see it on him, too; the sharp angles of his face were softer now, less striking, and his violet eyes were dull. They were no longer flecked with silver, like the starlight had been drained right out of him. It pained her to know that she had done this to him, that she was such a burden his shoulders, thin where they had once been broad.

“Your mother and I used to play a game,” Rhys murmured, stroking the back of Celeste’s hand with his thumb. “A thought for a thought. She would tell me one thing that she was thinking about, and in return, I would tell her something back,” he situated himself against the headboard. “I’m thinking that I love you very, very much, and that you, Celeste darling, are the greatest gift that your mother could have ever given me.”

A tear rolled down her cheek, but Rhysand wiped it away. When she did not speak, he continued. “I’m thinking that I’d do anything to take this pain from you, to keep you from suffering. I’m thinking that your mother would, too, and so would the others. I’m thinking that you’re trying so, _so_ hard to do this on your own because you’re afraid of becoming a burden, but I need you to know that you’re not. You are not a burden, Celeste, and you are not alone.” 

“I should be,” Celeste croaked, her voice hoarse from the previous night’s screaming. “I _should_ be alone. You should lock me in a dungeon and throw away the key. At least everybody else would be safe.”

Rhysand’s heart cleaved open, breaking for her. “Don’t say that,” he scolded gently, but he knew she meant it. He knew that she hated every ounce of her magic, every shadow, every ember of darkness that flickered inside of her. She hated it with whatever parts of her that had not been consumed by it. “I will never lock you away as though you’re a thing to be discarded, Celeste. It’s bad enough I’ve spent all these years keeping you confined to Velaris.” 

For twelve years, he had kept her confined to this city, but even here, she was not free to roam. Someone was to always be with her, lest she need to be flown or winnowed home to the safety of their house on the river, warded and spelled to keep her magic trapped inside. Rhysand had erased her from the minds of his people, and Celeste was nothing more than a friend of a friend who happened to know the High Lord. She was forgotten amongst the other six Courts, no doubt relieved she was dead. Except for Tarquin, of course, who sent a gift to Rhysand on her birthday every year, asking that he place it on her grave.

“It’s for the best,” Celeste whispered, and Rhys felt that numbness seep out of her.

He would take that away from her, too, if only he were given the chance.

“I want you to get out of this bed today,” he said to her, and Celeste tensed beside him, her fingers bunching into the velvet duvet she was curled beneath. “Your mother is going to the Rainbow today, and I want you to go with her. The fresh air will do you well, and from the looks of it, you’re in need of some new canvases.”

Indeed, the pile of canvases stacked in the corner of her room were splattered with paint, brush strokes marring their white surface. She could not remember when she had last painted, but at the mention of it, her fingers itched for a brush.

Rhys smiled and kissed her forehead. “I have to visit the Court of Nightmares today,” he told her. Celeste paled. The last time she had visited the Hewn City, Tamlin of the Spring Court had informed Rhysand of the Mortal Queens and their plans for her. Their palace there had been left to decay, and Celeste had not been back since. “Should you need me, you know how to reach me,” Rhys gently tapped her temple.

“Do you _have_ to go?” Celeste questioned, reminding Rhysand of her youth. “I don’t like it when you leave, especially so soon after I’ve lost control. What if it happens again? Mom panics, and Amael isn’t here to help me.”

The High Lord frowned. “I can stay, if you need me to,” Rhys told her. “But this meeting with Keir is important. I’d ask Mor to go in my place, but with Eris there visiting…”

Celeste swallowed, realizing how selfish she sounded. Her father was not just her father, but High Lord of the Night Court. He had other duties to attend to apart from catering to her. “Never mind,” she said quietly. “I don’t want Aunt Mor anywhere near him. I know how much he bothers her. Will you be gone long?”

“No,” Rhysand promised. “Only a couple of hours. I’ll be there and back before you realize I’m gone.”  

She sighed, an icy breath that Rhys felt against his arm. “All right,” Celeste murmured, and it was resignation in her tone as she forced herself up against the headboard. She had no desire to leave this bed, this room, this house. She had no desire to be carted off into the city while her mother shopped for art supplies.

Her father pressed another kiss to her brow. “Dress warm,” Rhys told her. “It’s getting cold out.”

It was such an absurd thing to hear from a High Lord that Celeste cracked a smile, one that had Rhys beaming back down at her. “There’s my girl,” he said, and it was pride that shone in his eyes. “Get yourself dressed and come downstairs. I’ll have Cerridwen and Nuala fix you something fresh for breakfast,” Rhys snapped his fingers, and the plate of cold food on her desk vanished.

Celeste hesitated for only a moment, then laid her head on Rhys’ shoulder. “I’m thinking,” she began quietly, and Rhysand pulled her into his arms. “That I love you, too. I’m thinking that I wish things were different, that _I_ was different.”

They sat together for several moments, Rhys combing his fingers through Celeste’s hair, mindful of the knots and tangles. “I wish for different circumstances,” he said to her. “But not for a different child. You, Celeste, are perfect.”

She did not believe him, regardless of her father’s conviction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Took a few days, but here's chapter 5! My poor Celeste... I adore her, but I feel so bad for her. Hopefully you guys can forgive me for how depressed and dark her character is, but it won't be that way forever! 12 years of uncontrollable magic has taken its toll on her, but perhaps there's a certain Illyrian warrior who can help save her... one that I promise will return in the next chapter. Lol.
> 
> Questions, comments, concerns...drop a line below! I'd appreciate it. ^_^


	6. Six.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a little dialogue heavy, so bear with me.

 

 

The fist that came hurtling towards Amael's face caught him off guard, enough so that when Cassian's knuckles connected with his cheek, his head snapped to the side and he stumbled. He spat blood onto the ground near his feet, his teeth rattling inside his skull from the blow. Amael flexed his fingers before lifting his hands to defend himself, fending off the warrior's next attack.

"Where's your head this morning?" Cassian barked, blocking Amael with ease as he swung at him, his fist sailing past the outer curve of his wing. "You're fighting like a child, Amael, not an Illyrian warrior who passed his Blood Rite last month. You're making me look bad as your trainer."

Amael sighed. "I'm sorry," he said, and Cassian knew he meant it. Shame flashed through his eyes, lingering there as Amael spun to avoid Cassian's fist. "I didn't sleep. Celeste lost control of her magic again, and I stayed up all night with her," he ducked, avoiding another blow to the jaw. "She was afraid to close her eyes. She tried to for an hour or so, but when the magic came creeping back in, she made herself stay awake."

If Cassian were concerned, he did not allow himself to show it. "That's no excuse," he reprimanded, sweeping out his leg and catching Amael in the back of the knees. The younger Illyrian crashed to the ground, his head cracking against the rocky Earth beneath him. He groaned, stars bursting behind his eyes. "You swore an oath to protect her," Cassian reminded him, crossing his arms over his chest. "If you can't fight _me_ when you're tired, a friend and Uncle that's going easy on you, then how would fare against an enemy?"

"It's different," Amael rasped, grasping Cassian's hand when he offered it, letting him haul him to his feet. "I don't have any genuine desire to hurt you, and you're not a threat to Celeste. If you were, we wouldn't be having this conversation. I'd have already slit your throat."

He snorted, nodding towards a rickety table just beyond the fighting pitch. "I appreciate the sentiment," Cassian said, following Amael to the water jug on the table. He poured them each a cup, downing his own and watching as Amael sipped his slowly, savoring it. "How was she before you left this morning?" Cassian finally asked, his voice hardly above a whisper lest anyone close by be listening. "You could have stayed, you know, had she needed you. I'd have understood."

"Celeste insisted I come," Amael told him, swirling the water in his cup and watching as it lapped over the sides. "She's always so numb after she loses control that I doubt she's gotten out of bed yet. She was lying there when I left, staring at the wall and crying. I hated to leave her."

Cassian swept a hand through his hair before filling his cup again. "Your training is important," he admonished. "But so is Celeste. The next time it happens, stay with her. If you don't show up in the morning, I know damn well where you are. I'd rather you be there when Celeste needs you than come here and let me kick the shit out of you."

"Thank you, Uncle Cassian," Amael said dryly. "I appreciate the sentiment."

Chuckling, Cassian clapped him on the shoulder. He crushed his cup and tossed it onto the table, then sauntered back onto the pitch. "Let's go," he said, removing the sword that was sheathed down the center of his spine, tucked between his wings. "No more taking it easy. You want to protect the Princess? You have to earn it. I don't care how tired you are."

Amael finished the last of his water and set the cup on the table. He retrieved his sword, grasping the bone pommel in his fist before stalking back out onto the pitch. Cassian lunged for him, his blade colliding with Amael's, sparks flying between them. Gritting his teeth, Amael stepped forward and pushed, but Cassian would not yield to him.

"Do you think," Amael began, twisting away to gain leverage. He put enough distance between them that he could speak before Cassian attacked him again. "That if Celeste had some sort of training, it would help her control her magic?"

Advancing, Cassian frowned. "What do you mean?" he rammed the hilt of his sword into Amael's ribcage, doubling him over. The air whooshed out of his lungs. "Rhysand doesn't want her touching her magic, not intentionally. He won't even let Amren work with her, and Amren is who helped Rhys when we were younger."

"I'm not talking about magic training," Amael wheezed, righting himself. "I'm talking about physical training, like this," he swung his sword out in front of him, and Cassian spun on his toes to avoid it. "She _has_ to have some sort pent-up rage or energy in her somewhere. If she can work through that in training, then at the very least, maybe she'd sleep at night," Amael stabbed his blade forward, aiming for Cassian's stomach.

He twisted and paused, considerate. "Maybe," Cassian said. "But I don't think that her magic stems from rage. I think it stems from fear," he twirled his sword with an elegant flourish, effectively halting their sparring. "You weren't there the first night she lost control, but I was. She was eight. Rhys tried to wake her, but her magic slammed him into the wall and pinned him there by the throat. She had no idea what she was doing, and Feyre panicked. Rhys could have died."

He frowned. Amael had never asked to hear this story before; he'd never wanted to. "What did she do?"

"She used the water magic that she inherited from Tarquin to try and drown the darkness out of her," Cassian cringed at the memory. "And very nearly killed her. Celeste only snapped out the magic's thrall and let Rhys go when she was barely breathing and unconscious. I'd never seen Rhysand so angry," he itched the back of his wing with the tip of his sword, shaking away the images of a waterlogged Celeste gasping for air on her bedroom floor. "And I still don't think he's forgiven her for it. Not entirely. He and Feyre couldn't even be in the same room together for a month."

Amael had always wondered why Celeste would never go swimming with him. She would sit at the edge of the pool and dangle her feet in the water, but she would never jump in. She had claimed she didn't know how, but had refused Amael's offer to teach her, insisting that she had no desire to learn.

"She's been afraid of her magic ever since," Amael murmured. Cassian nodded silently. "There's nothing that we can do for her? What if we gave her siphons?" he tapped the cobalt diamonds that were strapped to the tops of his hands, his own power flowing inside of them.

Cassian scoffed. "Rhys cracked a dozen of them before realizing that they couldn't contain his power. If they didn't work for him, they wouldn't work for Celeste."

"But would training her help?" Amael pressed. "I'd teach her."

He raised an eyebrow. "Has she ever mentioned that she _wants_ to learn how to fight?"

"No," Amael said, faltering. Celeste was not a fan of violence. "But if I offered, I doubt she'd say no. Not if there's a chance that it could help her."

"Talk to Rhys," Cassian shrugged. "See if he'll go for it. If he thinks that Celeste could benefit from it, he just might."

Amael bit his lip, sheathing his sword. "Would you help me?" he asked. Cassian quirked his head. "Train her," he clarified. "Would you help me train her?"

"No," Cassian answered simply. "She'd respond better to you, anyway, and you have restraint. I don't," he shifted his body into a fighting stance, his dark eyes taunting as he beckoned Amael towards him. "I didn't tell you to put your sword away, you little bastard. Train with me before you fantasize about training her."

The Illyrian accepted his challenge, and Amael returned home the following morning with a broken nose that Rhysand healed for him, if only so Celeste wouldn't see it.


	7. Seven.

 The Illyrian leathers that Feyre had given to Celeste that morning were loose-fitting and hot, sliding against her sweat-slicked skin as she stood on the roof of the river house. It was unusually warm for this time of year; Celeste couldn’t help but wonder if it were her mother’s doing, heating the air from where she sat across the pool next to Rhys, her hand resting lightly on his knee. The High Lord was simmering beside her, his feet dangling in the water as he watched with his eyebrows raised, observing every twist and turn and throw of Celeste’s fist as she stumbled towards Amael and cursed.

Amael rested a gentle hand on her fist, prying apart her fingers with his own calloused ones. “Untuck your thumb,” he told her. “You’ll break it that way. Hold your hand like this,” Amael made a fist and showed it to her. “When you swing, you’re curling your hand inward, and that’s why you’re not landing any punches. Not any painful ones, at least. Make sure that when you hit me, you’re hitting me with the top of your knuckles.” 

“But I don’t _want_ to hit you,” Celeste grumbled, flexing her fingers. “I don’t want to hurt you. This would be much, much easier if you were a mannequin. I wouldn’t feel bad for knocking that down or breaking it.”

He chuckled, sweeping a hand through his shoulder-length brown hair. “You aren’t going to hurt me,” Amael assured her. “And you won’t break me, either. Perhaps you could eventually knock me down, but that’s the reason we’re training in the grass. It’s less painful than the pavement,” he kicked at the grass beneath his feet for emphasis, the only patch of it on the roof that was meant for Elain’s roof-top garden in the spring and summer.

“I don’t like that we’re being watched,” Celeste added, curling her fingers the way that Amael had shown her. “Do you always have an audience when you train?”

“Sometimes,” Amael admitted, holding up his hands and bracing himself for the punches that would not hurt him. “Illyrians like a good show, and because of my father, it’s expected that I give them one,” Amael glanced at Azriel, perched in an iron chair behind Rhys and Feyre, his eyes fixated on his son. Shadows curled at the edges of his face, marring his expressionless features. “Our parents are only supervising—Feyre and Rhys want to make sure I don’t hurt you.”

Celeste bit her lip. “And Azriel?” she asked quietly. “He knows you’d never hurt me.”

Amael beckoned her with a small wave of his hand. “Swing,” he instructed her, swallowing down his guilt. Amael loved his father, but Azriel had no reason to be here, least of all to keep him safe. The Illyrian could hold his own, especially against an untrained female who could hardly hold her stance. Her magic was locked up inside of her, and Amael had not seen a lick of it since stepping out onto the roof.

She held up her fists, one hand blocking her face, the other poised to swing. Celeste stepped into the punch as Amael had taught her, her knuckles bouncing harmlessly off his palm. He did not flinch. “He’s afraid I’ll lose control,” Celeste said, righting her stance and swinging again, her fist connecting with Amael’s hand. She cringed as her fingers cracked.

“Maybe,” Amael glanced pointedly at her hand, having heard the sound. “But I know you won’t, and that’s all that matters. Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” Celeste flexed her fingers again, the joints aching with the promise of a bruise across her knuckles. “How are you so certain?” she asked him, lifting her hands and swinging again, her feet stumbling out from under her as she took too far of a step.

He caught her around the waist, his hands holding her gently to help steady her. “I’m certain,” he said. “Because I believe in you. I believe that you’ll learn how to work through this,” Amael met her gaze as Celeste looked up at him, her amethyst eyes shining with an emotion that he had not seen in years—hope. “You won’t hurt me.”

Celeste felt the air leave her lungs as she stared at him, at the promise and determination that burned in his hazel eyes. It made her heart break, and she did not want to disappoint him. She was aware that his hands were still holding her, that the pads of his fingers were pressing into the leather at her hips. “Amael—”

Rhysand cleared his throat from across the pool. Celeste whipped her head towards him. “I don’t see any training,” he drawled, something akin to a warning etched into the crevices of his face. He looked at Amael and raised his eyebrows. “I suggest that you get back to it.” Rhys’ eyes glanced at his hands around her waist, and Amael immediately let her go.

His cheeks flushed. “I’m sorry,” Amael murmured, more to Celeste than Rhysand. He stepped back, putting a respectable amount of distance between them. The High Lord smiled his approval, nursing a crystal glass of wine and sipping from the golden-rimmed edge.

Feyre slapped her hand against Rhysand’s chest and fixed him with a playful glare. “How about we call it a day,” she suggested, turning to Celeste and Amael. “You’ve been up here for a couple of hours, and I’m sure you’ve worked up an appetite. Clean yourselves up, and we’ll have lunch.”

She stood, holding out her arm and beckoning her child to her. Celeste smiled apologetically at Amael, lightly touching his hand before shuffling around the pool and ducking into her mother’s embrace. Feyre ushered her towards the wrought-iron staircase, one that swirled into the roof and would take them down into the wine cellar. Rhys followed them, quietly praising Celeste on a job well done as they disappeared down the stairs.

Left on the roof with his father, Amael turned towards him, stalking around the pool and sinking into the chair beside him. Azriel watched him with a predator’s focus, his dark eyes scanning every inch of him. “I’m fine,” Amael told him, the iron digging into his back as he settled into the chair. “You didn’t need to waste your time watching us, making her uncomfortable. I told you she wouldn’t hurt me.”

“Never intentionally,” Azriel countered quietly. “Forgive me, Amael, for worrying about my son.”

He sighed. “I wish you wouldn’t,” Amael said, turning to look at his father. Azriel was still watching him. “She’s trying, dad. She agreed to train with me given the slightest chance it might help her control her magic. Isn’t that good enough? She’s trying.”

Azriel was quiet for a very, very long time, mulling over the words threatening to spill from the tip of his tongue. No, he wanted to say, it was _not_ good enough. Not where Amael was concerned. Azriel loved Celeste; he would lay down his life for her in a heartbeat. He would go to the ends of the Earth to keep her safe. But Amael was his son, and he would always be Azriel’s priority.

The day Amael was born, Azriel had not been there. He had not known that the Fae he had taken as a lover had been with child, though he had only been with her once. She had left Amael on the steps of the river house, a note pinned to the blanket swaddling him. _Take care of him, Azriel_ , was all the parchment had said, and the Shadowsinger had been beside himself. She had not even named him.

He had searched for her, but Azriel could not remember her name. Only her face and that she had smelled of moonflowers, a scent that clung to Amael like a second skin, a lasting embrace from his mother. Azriel did not learn until years later that she had been ill, passing into the Otherworld shortly after Amael’s birth, and she wanted him to know his father. Her family would have kept Amael from him.

Amael did not look like her. He did not inherit her magic. His wings, sparkling red and gold, were near identical to his father’s. They had the same dark hair and hazel eyes, the same sharp features hewn of granite. He was a Shadowsinger, a gifted Illyrian warrior with copious amounts of the killing-power, channeled through seven cobalt siphons, like his father.

Their family often joked that they were twins, and if Azriel was not five-and-a-half centuries older, perhaps he would be inclined to speculate.

“When Rhysand was young,” Azriel finally said. “He could not control his magic. He tried; every day, he tried, but his efforts were never enough. The darkness was too much for him to bear, and you could see it leaking out of him, day by day, hour by hour, until he was consumed by it. Until Amren came to help him, Rhys was well on his way to destroying himself. Destroying us,” Azriel met Amael’s eyes. “I see that same darkness in Celeste, and even the shadows are afraid of her.”

“It’s not her fault,” Amael insisted. “Rhysand won’t let Amren help her.”

Azriel nodded, a small dip of his chin in acknowledgement. “The Mortal Queens are not kind,” he told his son. “If they were to discover that Celeste is still alive, the things that they would do to her, Amael… Even _I_ could not stomach it,” his scarred hands brushed against Truth-Teller, the dagger he used to maim and torture his enemies. “If Celeste’s power was to grow, they would sense it. They would track her right here to Velaris, and take her.”

“I wouldn’t let that happen.”

“Amren and I have spent years researching their prophecy,” Azriel continued. “‘A child born of black and gold, claim her mind and use her soul. Take her life and forge the key, to revive the king across the sea.’” 

A shudder rippled through him. Amael took a breath. “A child born of black and gold… that’s how Tamlin knew that the prophecy was intended for Celeste. Dark and light, black hair and golden hair, Rhysand and Feyre,” his father nodded in confirmation. “Claim her mind and use her soul; are the Mortal Queens Daemati?”

“No,” Azriel told him. “But perhaps they have one in their arsenal. Celeste would never willingly help them, but if they had someone at their disposal who could infiltrate her mind, they could make her do their bidding.”

“Take her life to forge the key…” Amael swallowed. “She’d have to die to do it, to make the key that they need to revive Hybern.”

Azriel nodded again. “Yes,” he said. “They would use her as a sacrifice; drain every last drop of magic and kill her, and only then would they have harnessed enough power to forge the key. Celeste alone can do it, and that’s why Rhys has kept her hidden. It’s why he won’t let her develop her powers. One blast of magic could lead them right to her, and right now, perhaps she’s not capable of that. But with training, and if she were angry enough…”

Amael shook his head, his fingers curling into fists. “I won’t let that happen,” he said again, meeting his father’s eyes. “I won’t let the Mortal Queens touch her, and I will not let them revive Hybern.”

“I know,” Azriel murmured. “And that’s what scares me.”

Before Amael could counter him, he felt her, a tug at soul that told him the Princess was near. Celeste appeared on the iron staircase a moment later, her head popping up high enough to peer over the roof. “I’m sorry to interrupt,” she told them, glancing between father and son. “But lunch is ready, if you’re hungry. Dad told me to come and get you.”

“Thank you,” Azriel replied politely, a small smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. “We’ll be down in a moment.”

She smiled back at him, then looked at Amael, her dark head quirking to the side as if to ask, _is everything all right?_

Amael nodded once: _I’m okay_.

Celeste appeared to be satisfied as she disappeared back down the staircase. Azriel watched Amael as she left, his eyes tracking her movements until she was gone. And he knew, in the furthest reaches of his soul, that Amael would never let her go. He knew what his son would do for her, what he would give for her, and Azriel did not know if he could accept it.

“We should go,” he said quietly, rising from his chair. “Before Rhys comes up here himself. I don’t feel like chucking the High Lord into the pool.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you asking about Azriel and Amael's relationship, hopefully this answers a few questions! I just adore him so, so much.


	8. Eight.

From her seat at the head of the table, Celeste picked idly at her food, her fork scraping gently against the golden ceramic plate. She was not hungry, but family dinners were a rare occasion now that Cassian and Nesta spent most of their time in the Steppes. They had returned that morning from an extended stay in the mountains, and Rhysand had insisted upon a gathering of his Inner Circle to celebrate. Amren was to leave the following afternoon for a trip to the Summer Court, and Rhys was not sure when they would all be together again.

It was a night to celebrate, indeed.

But Celeste did not feel like celebrating. She did not feel like doing much at all. Celeste had spent the better part of her day curled up in her room with a book, nursing a headache that she knew was only the beginning. It started with a dull throb behind her eyes, then blossomed into a sharp, stabbing pain that would lead to her loss of control. Her magic would erupt from her soon, and she did not want to be here when it happened. She did not want to be at this table.

To her left, Amael was watching her from the corners of his eyes. Celeste pinched the bridge of her nose between her index finger and thumb, and Amael knew what was coming. He kicked her beneath the table to rouse her attention, a gentle nudge against her ankle that would not startle her. She looked at him and tried to smile: _I'm all right_.

Amael did not buy it.

He made a show of lifting his shoulders: _breathe_ , he meant to say, drawing in a breath through his nose. Amael held it, and when Celeste took a breath of her own, he exhaled slowly through his mouth. She mimicked him, cold air rushing into her lungs that dulled the ache between her eyes. Celeste took another breath, then another, and then returned to picking at her food, fried trout and fresh baked bread from the market.

Controlled breathing would only offer her a temporary reprieve, but perhaps she could make it through dinner. Celeste nudged Amael beneath the table, a light kick against the muscled calf of his leg. He looked at her, and Celeste couldn't help but notice that his hazel eyes appeared more green tonight. They shone beneath the faelights overhead.

She smiled at him: _thank you_.

Amael reached over and gently patted her hand: _you're welcome_.

When their plates were eventually cleared away, Rhysand was frowning at Celeste. He snapped his fingers and the dishes disappeared from the table, but Celeste had hardly touched her food. She had pushed it around her plate to give the illusion that she had eaten, but he had been watching her. Rhys could count on one hand the number of times that she had lifted her fork to her mouth.

Cassian's booming laugh startled her, enough so that Celeste jumped and placed her hand over her chest. Rhysand reached for her, but Amael was already there, his fingers brushing gently against her shoulder. She turned to him, finding comfort in the Illyrian's touch, and smiled. Amael smiled back, his thumb tracing over the soft material of Celeste's shirt, grey chiffon that matched the color of his tunic.

Rhysand assessed the contact for what it was, but Amael's hand lingered well after Celeste's heart had returned to a normal rhythm. He opened his mouth to bark at them, but Feyre's hand clamped down on his knee and squeezed. _Stop staring at them_ , she scolded through their bond. _Be thankful that he's keeping her calm. Your loud-mouthed brother nearly scared the poor thing half to death_.

He scoffed. _Yes_ , Rhys agreed, and even through their bond, he was grumbling. _But he can keep her calm while keeping his hands to himself_.

The sound of a chair scraping against the floor had the table settling into silence, Cassian's laughter fading away into the shadows. Celeste excused herself, the palm of her hand pressed to the center of her forehead as she rushed from the room, Rhys and Feyre scrambling after her. Amael made to follow them, concern shining in his eyes, but Azriel's hand clamped down on the boney frame of his wing, keeping his son in his seat. "Let them handle it."

Celeste collapsed in the sitting room, her hands pressing into the sides of her skull as her knees cracked against the moonstone. Darkness settled in around her, exploding from her fingers, her eyes, her mouth. She could not reign it in, could not draw it back inside herself. Talons of black adamant sank into Celeste's mind, shattering through her inner shields and the barrier she kept in place to protect herself. She screamed, a cry of unabashed agony that had Amael roaring from the dining room, and it was not her father's magic that had wormed its way inside of her.

"Get it out!" Celeste cried, her fingers trembling as she twisted them back into her hair. Those obsidian talons clawed at her, shredding her apart with the intent to leave her in pieces. "Get it out of my head!"

Rhysand took her face between his hands, delving into her mind and foraging through the remnants of her shield. There was a darkness lurking inside of her, shadows that were not her own, and Rhysand unleashed his magic upon it. He tore through her mind with brutal efficiency, panting as the darkness whirled and fought him back, Celeste their unfortunate battleground. Rhys could feel her beginning to break, her mind shattering apart as she screamed and scratched at her scalp, her fingernails drawing enough blood that Feyre wrangled her hands away.

"Celeste," Rhysand rasped. "You need to push them out. Push _me_ out. Don't let us inside your head."

"I can't!" Celeste sobbed, collapsing into Feyre's arms as the battle raged inside of her. She could not tell them apart, that strange, cruel darkness blending so perfectly with her father's. The talons tore at her again, cutting and shredding and killing. "Please, _please_ , make it stop. Get it out of my head!"

He pushed out a breath through his nose, his hands trembling against her face. He did not want to do this, but the High Lord had no choice. Celeste could not fight the darkness, and neither could he—not gently. "I'm sorry," Rhysand murmured, and it was the only warning that he gave her.

His magic surged, pouring into Celeste until it filled every crack and crevice. She did not have time to scream as Rhysand's power blasted through her, crackling along her bones and roiling beneath her skin. "I'm sorry," Rhys repeated, his voice hoarse as he slaughtered the shadows inside of her. At his strongest, they did not stand a chance against the High Lord, but neither did his child. "I'm sorry."

The darkness receded from the river-house as Celeste fell limp in Feyre's arms. Her grey-blue eyes were wide as she patted her daughter's cheek, a feeble attempt to rouse her back into consciousness. "Rhys," she breathed, and the fear in her tone had Amael snarling in the dining room, thrashing against Azriel's hold on him. "Rhysand, what did you do to her?"

Rhys was panting, his shaking hands braced on his tattooed knees. "What I had to do," he croaked, his violet eyes meeting his mate's fearful gaze. There were tears there, threatening to spill down his cheeks as the guilt of what he had done ate away at him. "It was either I do it—shatter her mind in a way that she could come back from it—or they do it, and kill her."

" _You did what?_ "

"Feyre, please," Rhys wheezed. "I _had_ to. She couldn't push them out, and I couldn't do it for her without taking away their hunting ground."

"Push _who_ out?" Feyre demanded, cradling Celeste against her chest.

"Whoever the Mortal Queens have tracking her," Rhys told her, raking a hand through his sweat-slicked hair. "They were forcing her to lose control—to unleash her magic in a way that they could use to find her. If I hadn't—" his eyes fluttered, his guilt twisting like a knife inside his chest. "They were trying to find her, Feyre, and they would have broken her beyond repair. I couldn't have saved her."

Footsteps trampled through the dining room, down the hall, and Amael skidded into the sitting room. Azriel and Cassian were behind him, the Shadowsinger panting from the effort it had taken to restrain his son. "What did you do?" Amael snarled, storming over the moonstone and falling to his knees next to Feyre. He reached for Celeste's hand and squeezed it. "What happened?"

Rhysand watched him wearily. He had never seen the Illyrian angry, and his killing-power was yet to be tested. But the way he held Celeste's hand… it was heartbreakingly gentle. His wrath would not extend to her, and for that, the High Lord was grateful. "She'll be all right," Rhys placated. "She'll sleep, probably for a couple of days, but she'll be fine," his hand was still trembling as he rested it on Amael's shoulder. He ignored the flare of his nostrils as he tensed and huffed at the contact. "They were trying to find her, Amael, and she couldn't push them out of her head. They were killing her."

"And shattering her yourself was a better alternative?"

He flinched. "Yes," Rhys said hoarsely. "She'll recover from what I did to her."

"Whoever got inside her head," Cassian spoke, a dark expression lingering across his face. "They couldn't have been too far away. Somewhere here in the Night Court, I'll bet," he cracked his knuckles before tapping the back of his siphons. Thick, scaled Illyrian armor burst up the length of his forearms. It spread across his chest, down his torso, and unfurled down to his feet. "Should Az and I start hunting?"

The High Lord rose to his feet. "I'll join you," Rhys said. "I need to visit the wards and figure out how someone could of have gotten through them."

Amael began to rise. "I want to help."

"No," Rhys told him, cringing from the feral rage that flickered through the young warrior's eyes. "I want you to stay with Celeste. You do not leave her side until I return, and you slaughter whoever comes near this house that isn't a part of my Inner Circle. Is that understood?"

Amael blinked. "Yes."

"Good," Rhys clapped him on the shoulder. "Get her upstairs. You do not leave her room."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This…was very rushed, and I apologize for that. I was looking forward to this chapter, but I don't write tense / high action scenes very well. I'm not happy with how it came out, but it's done and over with it, and now I can move on with the Mortal Queen's plot! I may revisit this later and do some tweaking, but I'll let you all know in the next chapter's notes if I decided to do hat.
> 
> I'm also having some weird / painful issues with my eyes right now, so seeing the word document to have written this at all was a bit…difficult. I'm going to wait until it goes away before working on the next chapter, so it may be a couple of days before I have anything else for you all to read. I'll apologize in advance for that, too, but staring at a screen hurts tremendously, especially for an extended period of time.


	9. Nine.

It was late the next morning when the Illyrians returned home, empty handed and simmering with a quiet rage. But Rhysand was not with them when Cassian and Azriel stalked through the front door, Feyre waiting for them in the foyer. She frowned at her mate's absence, but Cassian only pointed up at the ceiling and grumbled that the High Lord was on the roof, brooding and cursing the Cauldron. Feyre thanked him, then winnowed onto the roof where she found Rhysand slouched in a chair near the pool.

His wings were sprawled out behind him, curving over the iron chaise in a way that could not be comfortable. Rhysand's face was pressed into the palms of his hands, and he did not look up at her as Feyre sat down beside him. The High Lord's shoulders were trembling, a shake that wracked his entire body when Feyre touched the back of his neck, her fingers threading gently through his hair. "Talk to me," she murmured, wanting nothing more than to pry his hands from his face; to see the tears that she knew Rhysand was hiding from her.

He swallowed, his throat bobbing with the threat of oncoming hysteria. "What have I done?" Rhys croaked, leaning into Feyre's embrace as she wrapped her arms around him, pulling him to her. "I should have found another way to save her. Breaking her— _shattering_ her—I shattered her mind, Feyre. My _child's_ mind. I—"

"You said that there was no other way," Feyre reminded him, gently nudging his hands away from his face. She rested her palm against his cheek, brushing away his tears with the pad of her thumb. "You said that Celeste will be fine, and she's sound asleep in her bedroom. Amael is with her."

Rhysand's breathing was haggard, his hands still trembling as he reached for Feyre's and interlocked their fingers. "I panicked," he rasped. "She was screaming, and in pain, and all I wanted was to take it away from her. Her shields were gone, and she couldn't shut them out," Rhysand's chest ached as though someone had slid a knife into it. "If I hadn't been the one to do it, Feyre, they would have. I had to take away the battle ground. If I shattered her, then there would be nothing left for them to break."

She placed her fingers beneath his chin, tilting Rhysand's head back far enough that he was forced to look up at her. His violet eyes were full of tears, the evidence of his guilt as they gathered on the ends of his lashes. Feyre wiped them away. "If I thought for one moment, Rhysand, that you had intentionally hurt our daughter, we wouldn't be having this conversation," she pressed her head to his brow, cupping the back of his neck. "If I thought you had acted blindly or out of fear, and that you chose to overlook some other way to save her, I would have killed you."

"We couldn't find them," Rhysand told her, his nostrils flaring as he choked down his shame. There would be a time for that later. "Whoever attacked her. They didn't do it from Velaris, but their magic seeped through a crack in the wards. I repaired it," he took a breath to steady himself, focusing on Feyre's fingers as she trailed them up the back of his neck. "They know she's here."

Feyre's heart sputtered inside her chest. "What does that mean?" she asked. "What do we do? Will the Mortal Queens come for her?"

"I don't know," Rhys answered quietly. "The Daemati they had tracking her… they traced her power to the city, then broke into her mind to make her lose control. It was a test, to see if she were capable. To see if she were indeed strong enough to forge that Mother's-damned key."

"You faked her death, Rhys. They shouldn't have known to come looking for her," Feyre's eyes shone with fear. Rhysand squeezed her hand. "She didn't lose control last night. Not entirely. Maybe they'll leave her be because of it."

He shook his head, bringing their joined hands to his mouth and pressing a gentle kiss to her fingers. "The Daemati who attacked her would have sensed the full extent her power the moment they shattered her shields. The Mortal Queens know damn well she's capable of forging their key, and they've always known she was in Velaris, alive. They've been biding their time to let her power grow."

"If they need her, why try killing her?"

"To test her," Rhys guessed. "Or to break her. A shattered mind leaves her vulnerable. They could easily step right into her head and use her to do their bidding," the horror on Feyre's face had him reeling. "I shielded the house before I left last night," he added quickly. "So did Amren and Mor, and even Azriel had his shadows on guard. She's safe, so long as she stays inside or up here on the roof."

Feyre took a breath. "Celeste won't like that."

"I know," Rhys acknowledged, burying his face into the warmth of Feyre's neck. She smelled of paint and the ocean. "I promise you, Feyre, that I will find some other way to keep her safe. I will not keep her locked away in this house," he pressed a kiss to her pulse. "It's temporary."

She nodded. "I believe you," Feyre said, combing her fingers through Rhys' hair. "I don't blame you, just so you know. I'm not angry with you," she felt him tense against her. "Celeste won't be angry, either. She'll understand. Amael, on the other hand…"

Rhysand snorted. "I can't believe he actually _snarled_ at me," he said. "Nineteen years and that boy hasn't so much has raised his voice, much less mouthed off to his High Lord," Rhys chuckled, pulling Feyre closer to him. "I'll admit, knowing how much he cares for her brings me some peace of mind. He'd do anything for her."

"You don't think that they're…" Feyre motioned back and forth between herself and her mate. "Do you?"

"Oh, I have no doubt," Rhys told her. "If I could have chosen a mate for Celeste, I'd have picked Amael in a heartbeat. Fortunately, I think that the Mother has done that for me, and the two of them are just waiting for the bond to snap in place," he paused. "Perhaps it already has. For Amael, at least. Otherwise I doubt he'd have had the balls to snarl at me."

Feyre's laugh was soft. "If they _are_ mates," she mused. "You'll have to stop getting so pissed every time he touches her. Need I remind you what happened when I first accepted the mating bond?"

He blanched. "I'll kill him."

"Amael won't leave her, you know," Feyre informed him quietly. "He followed your orders exactly: took her to her room, got her settled, and he hasn't budged from the chair next to her bed," the High Lady of the Night Court smiled. "He won't look away from her. It's like he's afraid that if he does, he'll lose her."

Rhys hummed in appreciation. "So the same way I look at you, then."

She turned to him, her hands moving to cup his face between her palms. "I love you," Feyre told him, her grey-blue eyes meeting his violet ones. Rhys swallowed thickly. "Whatever happens, Rhysand, we'll figure it out together."

"Together," he murmured, pressing his hand to the back of Feyre's neck. He pulled her to him, and gently pressed his lips against hers in a soft, lingering kiss. Darkness clashed and starlight flickered between them. "I love you, too," Rhysand said. "And I'll do whatever it takes to keep my family safe."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a short Feysand moment that was hopefully better than the last chapter! My eyes are feeling a smidge better, so I cranked this out while my niece was asleep. Enjoy!


	10. Ten.

Piecing her own mind back together was a tedious, terrible task, especially while doing it in the dark. Celeste was afraid of the magic and shadows that beckoned her, but she had no choice but to face them alone as she slowly rebuilt her shields. She shifted through the shards of who she was, a memory of her parents here, her favorite color there, and lifted them back into place. There were the things she tucked away for safe keeping: a memory of her and Amael sneaking onto the roof in the middle of the night to count the stars; her and Cassian breaking a vase in the foyer and claiming not to know what had happened to it.

There were parts of her that Celeste hid deep, pressing them down into the back of her mind until only whispers of their presence haunted her: her mother almost drowning her to save Rhysand. Cassian and Mor staring at her with true, unabashed fear in their eyes when her magic had lashed at Feyre and threw her across the sitting room. Tamlin showing up on her fifth birthday, speaking the prophecy and sealing her fate inside Velaris. These were the things she hated most, the scars that ran the deepest, and she buried them.

As she put herself back together, piece by broken piece, Celeste felt the outside world come rushing in. She heard the roaring current of the Sidra, its blue waters lapping at the banks beyond the river-house. She felt the sunlight touching her face, pouring in through what was certainly an open bedroom window, a breeze tousling her knotted locks of hair. She felt the dip in the bed beside her, smelt the rugged scent of sea and moonflowers, and knew who was keeping her company. 

Celeste took a breath, drawing in air until her lungs hurt, and slowly opened her eyes. The golden light was blinding, but she savored it. She did not care if the sun singed her eyes from her sockets so long as she was no longer in the shadows. It took her a moment to adjust, to blink away the blur that clouded her eyes, until the first thing she saw was him.

More specifically, she saw Amael’s hair, dark and tangled and splayed across the edge of her bed, his head resting against the mattress. His hazel eyes were closed, and an open book was pressed beneath the palm of his hand. The Illyrian had fallen asleep reading.

Sunlight sparkled off his wings, red and gold membrane stretched and sprawled out behind him, draping over his broad shoulders like a blanket. Shadows were curling against him, a shield meant to keep Amael safe, but they scattered when Celeste reached for him, carefully pulling his book free. She tried not to let it bother her, that the shadows feared her as much as she feared them. 

She marked Amael’s place in the book and closed it, then placed it on her nightstand. “Amael,” Celeste murmured, cringing from the hoarseness of her voice. She reached for him again, brushing his hair away from the sharp angles of his face. He stirred at the contact, his wings rustling behind him. “Amael,” Celeste said again, tapping her finger against his cheek. “If you’re going to sleep, then at least come lay down. This can’t be comfortable.” 

Amael’s eyes fluttered open, and it took him several moments to process who was touching and speaking to him. “Celeste,” he breathed, jolting upright and scrambling to get closer. He cradled her face between his palms, his eyes open wide now. Fear was shining there, but he was not afraid of her, not like the others. “You’re all right,” he said, more to himself than to her. “How do you feel?”

“Like my father shattered me into a thousand pieces,” Celeste told him dryly. “My head hurts.”

“Yes,” he mused. “I’d imagine it would after what Rhysand did to you. He’s lucky he’s still breathing. Cassian threatened to beat his ass from one end of Velaris to the other, and I offered to help. Mor and Amren, too. I’ve never seen them so angry.”

Celeste placed her fingers against the back of Amael’s hand, keeping his palm against her cheek. “I’m fine,” she promised quietly. “Just a headache. My father didn’t have a choice, and I’d appreciate if you didn’t try killing him for it. He did what he had to do.”

He closed his eyes, pressing his forehead to her brow. “I heard you screaming,” Amael whispered, his voice thick with an emotion that Celeste did not recognize. She moved closer to him, stealing his warmth as Amael closed his wings around her, casting them in sparkling darkness, the kind that did not frighten her. The kind that was wholly Amael, beautiful and soft and peaceful. “I tried to get to you, but my father, he—” he pushed out a breath through his nose. “I wasn’t there, and I’m sorry. I should have been.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Celeste murmured, laying her head against his chest. “Azriel only wants to protect you, Amael, and I cannot and will not blame him for that. I’m thankful for it,” she closed her eyes. “How long have I been asleep?”

“Four days,” Amael answered, twisting around until his back was pressed against the headboard, Celeste sitting in his lap. “Feyre and Rhys come to check on you every couple of hours. They should be by sometime soon, if you wanted to get some more rest.”

“No,” Celeste told him. “I’ve slept long enough. I want to know what happened.”

Amael tensed, but Celeste drummed her fingers against his chest. _Calm down and talk to me,_ she was saying. He swallowed. “The Mortal Queens know where you are,” he said quietly. Amael heard the hitch in her breathing, heard the spike in her pulse as her heart began thundering against her ribcage. He wrapped his arms around her waist, his wings curling in tighter. “They will not touch you,” Amael vowed. “I will not let them hurt you.”

She shook her head, her fingers grasping at the thin fabric of his shirt. He could feel her hands trembling. “If they know where I am, they’ll come here,” Celeste whimpered. “They’ll tear Velaris apart. They’ll—" 

“Rhys reinforced the wards,” Amael told her. “No one is stepping foot inside Velaris unless the High Lord allows it. You’re still safe.”

“No,” Celeste countered, her pale eyes filling with tears. “I’m not. And neither is anyone else.” 

Shadows sparked at her fingertips, dancing against Amael’s chest until she sucked in a breath and curled her fingers into fists, smothering them. She would not hurt him. But she felt the magic rising inside of her, leaking over that precarious inner barrier she had worked so tirelessly to restore.

“Calm down,” Amael murmured, resting his palm against her cheek. He wiped away her tears with the pad of his thumb. “Breathe. You can’t let the magic control you, not right now.”

Celeste buried her face into his chest. “They already know where I am,” she said. Darkness crackled along her bones; it prowled beneath her skin and coiled in the back of her mouth like smoke. She swallowed it down. “The only reason I’m not giving in to it now is because you’re here and I don’t want to hurt you.”

“And if I wasn’t here?” Amael questioned, wrapping his fingers around the back of Celeste’s neck, holding her against him. She shrugged, squeezing her eyes shut. “Do you want to know what I think about your magic? I’ve been working hard on a theory.”

“Of course you have.”

Amael chuckled. “I don’t think you lose control,” he said. “I think your magic wants to protect you, but it can’t always distinguish friend from foe. It attacks whatever and whoever it feels is a threat to you,” Amael’s fingers threaded through the inky black hair at the nape of her neck, his thumb tracing against her skin. “The only time you lose control is when you’re afraid. During a nightmare, when you’re anxious, right now…”

“You’re not a threat to me,” Celeste mumbled, breathing in deeply through her nose. She would not lose control. Not right now. She would not hurt him. “I’m not scared of you."

“No,” Amael agreed. “But you’re afraid of the Mortal Queens and what they could do to Velaris. The magic thinks that it has to protect you, but since it knows I’m not hurting you, you can control it. It’s not raging. But when Rhys or Feyre try breaking through your shields to pull you from the magic’s thrall, it attacks them. It thinks that they’re a threat.”

Celeste took another breath. “How’d you come up with your theory?”

“Something Cassian said a few weeks ago got me thinking,” Amael admitted. “He said that he thought your magic stemmed from fear, and that you only lost control whenever you were afraid,” his wings shifted as footsteps sounded down the hall. Amael unfolded them, letting them fall away to the sides. Sunlight came rushing back in. “I think it just wants to protect you, and you don’t know how to find a balance between needing protection and wanting it.”

“I don’t need magic to protect me,” Celeste grumbled. “I have you for that.”

Amael nodded. “Which is why you’ll never hurt me. Your magic knows that I’ll protect you, too. We’re on the same side.”

She curled into him, breathing in his scent. “I don’t deserve you.” 

The bedroom door cracked open before Amael could argue with her. Rhysand and Feyre popped their heads through the door, then trampled inside upon seeing their child awake. Amael did not move as Feyre rushed to the bed, gathering Celeste into her arms and pulling her from Amael’s embrace. “Celeste,” she cried. Celeste only patted her back. “You’re all right.”

Above their heads, Amael met Rhysand’s gaze. He lowered the iron shield in his mind enough to tell Rhys, _she’s fine, and she’s not upset with you_ , before snapping it back up before he could pick through his brain. 

The High Lord released a breath, his eyes fluttering. “Thank you, Amael,” he said quietly. “I owe you.” 

“No,” Amael said. “You don’t.”


	11. Ten.

It was much too early when Cassian dragged her out of bed, hauling Celeste up onto the roof to train. He had barely given her time to get dressed, and she was still rubbing the sleep from her eyes when the sound of swords clashing met her ears. Celeste stumbled up the stairs behind Cassian, surprised to find Amael and Azriel already on the roof and sparring, their siphons flickering in the sunlight.

She plopped herself down near the pool, waiting her turn to train. Celeste was in no rush to make a fool of herself in front of three Illyrian warriors, only one of which would not hold it against her. If Cassian was here, Celeste prayed that he only planned to supervise, and that Amael would still be her sparring partner. As much as she loved her uncle, she dreaded the day she ever had to step into the ring with him.

Cassian dropped onto the chaise beside her. "How are you feeling?" he asked, as though it had only just occurred to him that Celeste had spent the last four days shattered and unconscious in bed. He lifted a wing and held it above her head, offering her shade from the sun. They sparkled black and gold beneath the light.

"I feel sleepy," Celeste grumbled, laying her head against his shoulder. Cassian's body rumbled as he laughed. "Don't Illyrians know what it means to sleep in?" she questioned, watching as Azriel knocked Amael to the ground, pinning him there with a foot to his chest and the tip of his sword at his throat. Celeste winced. "Do they always train so aggressively?"

He snorted. "Have you never watched us train before?" Cassian asked. Celeste shook her head. Most of Amael's training had taken place in the Steppes, and Cassian was rarely in Velaris these days. She had seen her father and Azriel spar a couple of times, but they had always stopped when they caught her watching from the staircase. "Amael goes easy on you because you're untrained. If you knew what you were doing, he'd be pummeling you into the ground like Azriel is doing to him now."

Celeste closed her eyes. If Amael was going to get his ass kicked, she preferred not to watch. If Cassian noticed her dozing off beside him, he did not let himself comment on it, and instead sat still to allow her to use him as a pillow. It baffled her how well he could sit like a statue and still bark out insults. "Cauldron boil me, Amael! Stop leaving your left side open!"

The younger Illyrian wheezed a painful, "shut up, Uncle Cassian," before lunging at Azriel with his sword. Azriel blocked him with ease, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He whispered something to his son, and Amael huffed out a quiet laugh before tossing his weapon aside. He lifted his fists instead. "Bring it on, old man."

They leapt into hand-to-hand combat, dancing and taunting and circling. Amael swung at his father, missing his jaw by a hairsbreadth. Celeste pried open her eyes to watch them, but closed them again when Amael spit blood onto the ground. She had never known Azriel to be so rough with him.

"It's almost like everything I ever taught you flies out of your head when you fight," Cassian commented. Amael graciously showed him his middle finger, then dodged Azriel's fist. "You don't even fight this bad in the Steppes," he said. "Is it because Nylla isn't here to watch you?"

Amael's eyes widened just before Azriel punched him in the face, effectively cracking his nose. Blood poured down his chin, staining the front of his leather fighting gear. Cassian cackled a laugh. "Just like your father," he said. "Distracted by pretty females. You should see him try to train when Mor is around."

If Amael offered a retort, Celeste did not hear him. There was a sinking feeling in her chest, a newly inflicted wound dug deep into her heart that Cassian had carved with a knife. Who was Nylla? Amael had never mentioned her before. But perhaps he hadn't needed to; perhaps it was none of her business. Amael was only her friend, after all, and Celeste was certain he had others in the Steppes. Perhaps Nylla was one of them.

She waited until Amael was sparring again, caught up in dodging his father's fists. "Who is Nylla?" she asked Cassian.

"A female that Amael's been pining over for months," Cassian said, his eyes following Amael's every move, observant, correcting, and calculating. "She's Devlon's daughter. He's caught them in bed a time or two, and I'm surprised Amael still has his wings."

Celeste swallowed. "Oh."

Azriel swung at Amael one final time before yielding, calling an end to their spar. He clapped his son on the shoulder, complimenting him for a job well done, then stalked around the pool to the lounge chairs. Azriel sank onto a chaise, his wings sprawling out behind him as he yawned and cracked his knuckles.

"Your turn," Cassian announced, nudging Celeste with his elbow. "Show me what Amael has taught you."

She did not want to train, and she could not bring herself to even glance in Amael's direction. He was waiting for her in the grass, wiping the blood from his nose, but Celeste would not look at him. Instead, she pressed her palm against her forehead, effectively faking a headache. Cassian blanched. "I don't feel well," Celeste told him. "Perhaps I'll train with him tomorrow."

Amael was immediately moving towards her, concern shining in his eyes, but Celeste held up a trembling hand to stop him. "I'm fine," she said, still avoiding his gaze. "I'm going to go lay down. Train with Cassian."

She was on her feet before Amael could potentially call her bluff, shuffling towards the iron staircase that led into the house through the wine cellar. Celeste did not look back when Cassian barked at him to get back into the ring, but she felt his eyes following her until she disappeared down into the house.

Shadows flickered against her palms, but Celeste squeezed her hands and forcefully willed them away. If Amael's theory was to be true, then she did not need their protection. She was surprised and caught off guard, but there was nothing and no one trying to hurt her. Amael did not owe her an explanation, and he certainly did not need to tell her his business beyond the walls of Velaris.

Feyre found her in bed an hour later, curled beneath the blankets and flipping through the pages of a book. She frowned. "Are you all right?" Feyre asked, sitting herself on the edge of Celeste's bed. "Cassian told me you left training because of a headache."

"I feel better," Celeste lied, but truth be told, she felt awful. Awful for having faked a potential melt down, for prying into Amael's business like it was owed to her, for being so petty and running away. "I just needed to lay down."

Her mother raised an eyebrow. "If you don't want to tell me what's wrong," Feyre said. "You don't have to. But I'd appreciate it if you didn't lie to me."

Celeste winced. "I'm sorry," she murmured, sinking down into her pillows. She was quiet for several moments, trapped beneath the weight of her mother's eyes, until eventually she sighed and closed her book. "Did you know that Amael was seeing someone in the Steppes?"

"Ah," Feyre mused. She kicked her feet up onto the bed and laid down, twisting beneath the blanket that Celeste offered to her. "Azriel mentioned he was seeing someone, but from what I understand, their relationship is purely physical. Amael doesn't actually care about her, not in the ways that count."

"is it because she's Illyrian?" Celeste asked, trying and failing to keep the jealousy from her voice. Feyre smiled sadly at her. "There are plenty of females in Velaris who would fall to their knees if he asked them to."

"Maybe," Feyre said, lifting a hand to brush the hair from her face. She tucked the midnight black strands back behind Celeste's ear. "But maybe that's not what appeals to him. Just because he can have anyone he wants, doesn't mean that he actually wants them. Those same girls who would throw themselves at his feet? They would use him to get to your father just as quickly."

She shrugged her shoulders. "I guess so."

Feyre patted her cheek. "Did you talk to Amael about this?" she asked. "Or did you run from your training to avoid him?" Celeste only shrugged her shoulders again. "That isn't fair to him, Celeste. You can't punish him for what he does when he isn't here with you."

"I'm not punishing him," she grumbled. "I just didn't want to train with him."

Her mother pressed a kiss to her forehead. "All right," she digressed. "But Amael is your friend. He's loyal to you in every way that counts and that's expected of him. He's allowed to indulge in what or who he wants, and you have no right to get upset with him for it."

Celeste forced herself to nod. "I know," she said. "I'll apologize the next time I see him."

And she would, because her mother was right. Celeste had no reason to be upset with him, petty jealousy aside. It was selfish of her to believe that Amael should tell her everything, especially whatever he did up in the Steppes. He did not owe that to her. If this Nylla was who made him happy, then Celeste would let him have it. Amael deserved it more than anyone, and who was she to ruin it?


	12. Twelve.

Amael could not focus. He could not concentrate on anything but the ache inside his chest, his heart cleaved in two by the distance that Celeste had put between him. They had barely spoken in days, and despite her tentative smiles whenever he caught her eye, Amael was painfully aware she was avoiding him. She found an excuse to leave the room when he entered, she did not sit next to him at the dining table, and she had stopped going to the roof to train with him.

 

He could not fathom why. Amael had spent the last two weeks wracking his brain for anything he might have done wrong, but there was nothing. They had not argued in years beyond playful, half-hearted bickering, and Amael did not recall having said something that could have upset her. Whatever had happened between them, Amael did not understand why Celeste had chosen not to talk about it—why she had chosen not to speak to him at all.

 

The fist that connected with Amael’s jaw sent him spiraling to the ground, knocking him back into his senses. He coughed and spat blood into the grass, refusing to meet Cassian’s gaze as the Illyrian stood over him and snarled, his arms crossed over his chest. “What’s the matter with you?” he demanded, shoving Amael over with a swift kick to his shoulder. “You haven’t landed a single hit all morning, and you haven’t eve put up a fight.”

 

Cradling his jaw, Amael prodded at his teeth with his tongue, checking to see if Cassian had knocked any loose. He was surprised to find them intact. “I’m sorry,” he said, climbing to his feet and stumbling. The hit had rattled him, enough so that Amael felt dizzy. “I’ll do better.”

 

“Cassian,” Azriel called, rising from the chaise he was lounging in. “Take a break. I need to speak with you,” he circled the pool, his wings tucked in tight behind him. “Amael, go find Feyre. See if she’ll help clean you up,” Azriel glanced pointedly at his jaw, noting the bruise that was forming there. “A hit that hard, and Cassian damn well could have broken it.”

 

Amael sighed, wincing at the ache in his jaw. “Are we finished training for the day?” he asked, looking to Cassian for an answer. The Illyrian only huffed and waved the younger male away, a look of disgust etched into the crevices of his face. Amael ducked his head. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

 

His father watched him as he left, his wings dragging against the ground as Amael lumbered towards the staircase. Azriel waited until he was safely inside, then turned to Cassian and sighed. “I need you to do something for me,” he said, rubbing at his temple with calloused fingers. Cassian quirked an eyebrow. “Take Amael to the Steppes, and keep him there.”

 

“Why?” Cassian asked. “Not that he doesn’t need the extra training, but Amael passed his Blood Rite. I have no excuse to keep him there.”

 

The Shadowsinger pushed out a breath. “Please, Cassian,” Azriel said, meeting his brother’s gaze. Desperation shone in his eyes. “I want him away from Velaris. Make him do grunt work, train novices, I don’t care. Give him something to do to keep him busy, but make sure he stays in the Steppes.”

 

Cassian raked a hand through his hair. “Why?” he asked again, his tone bordering on frustrated. “Because if I have to put up with him and find shit for him to do, I’d better have a damn good reason for it. Devlon hates having another half-breed in the camp, and he makes my life Hell over a kid that’s not even mine.”

 

“I want him away from Celeste.”

 

The taller male bristled. “Away from her?” Cassian sneered. “She’s hardly spoken to him in weeks, and Amael can barely function. You think he’ll fare any better by permanently sending him to the Steppes? He’ll lose his shit if he can’t see her.”

 

“That’s the point,” Azriel told him. “Amael is too distracted here. He let you pummel him into the dirt today because he wasn’t focused on his training,” he crossed his arms over his chest, shadows curling against his temples. “He’s Illyrian, Cassian. He might be able to prove himself if the occasion ever genuinely called for it, but he’s forgotten what it means to be a warrior. He’s so caught up in trying to figure out why Celeste isn’t speaking to him that he doesn’t give a damn about anything else. She’s a distraction.”

 

He shook his head. Cassian could not believe what he was hearing. “Celeste is a seventeen-year-old child, Azriel. Our High Lord’s child, may I remind you, who Amael swore an oath to protect. You can’t just take him away from her, especially with the Mortal Queens hunting her,” Cassian’s wings flared behind him, the membrane sparkling in the sunlight. “She’s not a threat to Amael, Az, and if you think that I believe this, ‘she’s a distraction,’ bullshit for even a minute, then you clearly don’t know me very well,” Cassian pinned him with a glare, his temper slipping its leash. “Just because you’re afraid of Celeste’s magic—”

 

“I’m not afraid of her magic,” Azriel spat, his dark eyes burning with an icy rage that Cassian knew well enough to fear. “I’m afraid of what she could do to my son.”

 

Cassian pinched the bridge of his nose, his siphons glinting at his wrists. “I hate arguing with you,” he said. “Especially over shit this stupid. If you want me to take him to Steppes, fine. Like I said, he could use the extra training,” Cassian rolled his shoulders, working loose the tension that had begun to stiffen his muscles. “But Amael is not a child, Azriel. You aren’t doing him any favors by sending him away. It’s only going to piss him off.”

 

“I’d rather him be pissed off and safe than happy and consumed by darkness,” Azriel’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I don’t expect you to understand, Cassian, but I will do anything for my son. So long as he’s here in Velaris, and so long as he’s close to Celeste, he’s at risk of being slaughtered by her magic. I don’t need to remind you why you balk and run whenever she loses control.”

 

He blanched. “She didn’t know what she was doing,” Cassian countered. “Celeste didn’t choose to shove shadows down my throat and smother me. I don’t hold her accountable for what her magic does when she’s lost in it. It isn’t her fault that Rhys won’t teach her how to master it.”

 

“I understand that,” Azriel insisted. “But what she’s done to you and to others… I do not want that for my son.”

 

“I get it,” Cassian sighed. “And I guess it’s not my call. If you want Amael gone, I’ll take him with me when Nesta and I leave tomorrow. Just know that I don’t condone this, and I think that you’re making a mistake. Amael has no place in the Steppes.”

 

“I know,” Azriel said. “And that’s my fault.”

 

 


	13. Thirteen.

The High Lord of the Night Court was tired—so very, very tired. Exhaustion gripped him with bone-white fingers sharp as the blade of his sword, carving into his mind and ravaging what was left of his consciousness. He was beyond the ability to form thoughts that resembled coherency, and if not for the child that lay screaming in his arms, he was certain he'd be sleeping like he were dead: still as a corpse but breathing.

Rhysand would not risk entering Celeste's mind, not so soon after he had shattered it. Her mental shield was a precarious barrier at best, and a single thought from Rhys would have it splintering apart inside of her. It was not a chance he would take, not with the Mortal Queens having discovered Celeste's power—that she was capable of forging their Key to the Otherworld. Rhysand would not leave her vulnerable.

Darkness rippled from her body, frail and writhing in Rhysand's arms. A hoarse cry tore from the back of her throat, and it was all Rhys could do not to cringe. "Celeste," he lamented, cradling her against his chest. "Celeste, _please_. Wake up. Come back to me," Rhys' thumb brushed against her temple as he combed his fingers through her hair, his violet eyes fluttering as her only response was a scream.

He sank into the pillows behind him. He had not slept for a month beyond stolen naps in his office, his pale, pallid face buried amongst the papers on his desk. Feyre hated having to wake him, but the Night Court could not wait for its High Lord to catch up on his rest.

"Rhys," his mate murmured, perched on the edge of the bed. Shadows hung beneath her eyes, reminding him that Feyre was suffering, too—that she had not slept, either. "This is every night. We can't keep doing this," Feyre cringed as Celeste screamed again, her neck straining with the effort. She had curled her fingers into fists, her fingernails cutting so sharply into her palms she drew blood. "Please," Feyre said, her voice hardly above a whisper. "You have to let her train. You have to let Amren work with her. She canceled her trip to the Summer Court. She's here if we need her."

The High Lord closed his eyes, his chest expanding with a deep, painful breath. "I'll think about it," he said hoarsely, and his answer was good enough for Feyre. "But letting her train isn't going to help us right now. It's not going to pull her out of this," Rhys pressed his brow to Celeste's foehead, as if the contact alone could reach her. "Her shields are up, and I won't break them. Not after—" his voice cracked, and Feyre took his hand. "She's been like this every night since Amael left."

Feyre pursed her lips. "Then order him back," she said. "The only reason he's there—"

"I know damn well why he's there," Rhysand retorted. "Cassian had no use for him, and Amael hates the Steppes," darkness, the kind that was rage and fury and grief, the kind that Rhysand kept hidden deep inside of him, began to prowl beneath his skin. Celeste's darkness snapped at him, sensing the surge of his power, and Rhysand forced it back down, snuffing it. "If I leave for a moment," Rhys said. "Can you stay with her?"

"Of course I can," Feyre snapped at him. "You're not the only one capable of caring for her."

He did not let the bite of her words sting him. "The room his shielded," Rhys said instead, carefully sliding out from beneath Celeste and laying her flat against the bed. Feyre sidled up behind her, lifting Celeste's head into her lap. She whimpered, shadows flickering at her fingertips. "Her magic is trapped in here until she wills it away. I won't be long."

Feyre nodded, combing her fingers through Celeste's hair as she cried and thrashed against the sheets. Her darkness settled as Rhysand slipped from the room, though it lingered well after he was gone, and Celeste still writhed against the shadows. She could not find her way back, down over the edge and deep inside the pit of her magic.

—

Rhysand blasted open the Shadowsinger's bedroom door, strolling inside with a lethal calm that would have sent lesser male's running. He was not surprised to find Azriel sitting on the edge of his bed, his face buried into the palms of his hands and his wings slumped behind him. Azriel did not look up as his High Lord crossed the room, nor did he so much as flinch as Rhysand sat down beside him.

"What is your problem with my child?" he inquired, but Azriel detected the subtle demand in his tone. The Spymaster was to answer regardless of whether or not he wanted to, and not with a bullshit response given only to pacify Rhysand.

"I don't have a problem with Celeste," Azriel grumbled into his hands, shadows curling around him as though to protect him from the oncoming wrath of the High Lord. "I love her, Rhysand, and you know that. I would lay down my life for her without question. My _problem_ ," he lifted his head, his dark eyes meeting Rhys' violet ones. Agony and guilt shone there, emotions that Rhysand had never seen expressed by the Illyrian. "Is that her magic is out of control, and you won't let her learn how to master it."

"You know why I can't let her train," Rhys reminded him. "You know what's at stake if I do."

Azriel shook his head. "You weren't letting her train because it kept her hidden—because allowing her power to grow would have led the Mortal Queens right to her. But they already know she's alive, Rhys, and you aren't doing Celeste any favors by crippling her. If they came for her now, she'd be defenseless."

"I would—"

"And if you're dead?" Azriel questioned. Rhys raised his chin at the implication—that perhaps he would not be enough to keep his child safe. His magic surged. "If all of us were dead—and we would _all_ die if it meant keeping her safe—who would protect her then? She doesn't have the ability to protect herself, and what little she's learned from sparring on the room would hardly do her any good."

He would not hear this now. "I want you to bring Amael back from the Steppes."

"No," Azriel murmured, shadows given a voice. "Amael won't be returning to Velaris until Celeste receives some kind of training. From you, from Amren, from anyone who can help her master the darkness," he met the High Lord's gaze again. "He won't be returning until I know that he will be safe here."

Rhysand pushed out a breath through his nose. "Celeste would never hurt him, Azriel. Not on purpose, and not on accident. If I can say anything with any amount of confidence, it's that. Sending him away won't protect him. He's in more danger in the war camps than he is here, where we don't give a damn that he's a half-breed."

Azriel closed his eyes, his fingers curling into fists. "You don't understand."

"Then make me understand," Rhys snapped at him, his temper slipping its leash. "Amael is the only one who can keep Celeste calm. He's the only one who can haul her back when she's trapped in the thrall of her magic. I've seen him do it, and so have you."

The Shadowsinger held out his hands, scarred and mangled but strong. "My father locked me in a cell," he began quietly, and the color drained from Rhysand's face. Azriel never spoke of his past, of the things that he had endured before being dumped in the Steppes by his father. "I did not know a life beyond the dark. I knew nothing but those four walls and the shadows that called to me from every corner," Azriel studied the ruined flesh of his hands. "He did not protect me from my half-brothers. He didn't punish them for setting my hands on fire just to see how quickly I would heal."

"You don't have to—"

"My father didn't care whether I lived or died," he continued. "And I will not be like him when it comes to my own son. I will not turn a blind eye when he's in danger of being hurt or killed by that same darkness I lived in inside of that cell," Azriel swallowed thickly. "I know what Celeste means to Amael, and I know what they are to each other. But I can't—I _won't_ —make the same mistakes as my father. I will not see him scarred like I am." He closed his fingers into fists. "I don't want Amael to end up like me, Rhys. Alone and unfeeling and with scars that run too deep… I don't want that for him."

Rhysand was quiet for a long, long moment, mulling over the words threatening to slip from the tip of his tongue. He had known what Azriel's family had done to him, though the Shadowsinger had only spoken of it once, when he'd been dumped into Rhysand's war camp and he and Cassian had asked why his hands were scarred. Rhysand had punished Azriel's half-brothers for burning him the moment he became High Lord, shattering their legs until it look months for them to heal. They had walked again, eventually, and he had never felt guilty for doing it.

"If I let Amren work with Celeste," he finally said, his voice stretched tight over the words. "Will you let Amael come back?"

Azriel looked up at him, dark eyes shining with promise. "If you let Celeste train with Amren," he said. "Then I won't get in the way when their mating bond snaps into place. Our children will have my blessing, and Amael will never again visit the Steppes unless he chooses to."


	14. Fourteen.

The Steppes were a frigid wasteland in comparison to Velaris, covered in snow and ravaged by an icy wind. There was no life here, no color beyond the slate gray huts built of stone, and not a friendly face to be found. Especially where Amael was concerned. He did not want to be here, not with the feral warriors who constantly gave him trouble, picking fights and stealing whatever belonged to him. He ignored the words they spat at him— _spoiled, bastard, half-breed_ —and proved himself worthy in the fighting pitch, but that did not make him belong here. Amael was not like them, cold and bitter and heartless.

A month he had spent here training, learning whatever he could from Cassian. Swordsmanship, hand-to-hand combat, offense, defense, politics, delegation, how to fight with an Illyrian unit that did not want him on their side… Amael soaked it all in, filing it away for safe-keeping. He would not forget these cold, lonely weeks away from home, and he would never forget that his father was the one who had sent him here. Somewhere inside of him he was grateful, had known that Azriel's intentions were pure, but Amael would never forgive him, not for sending him away.

It wasn't a punishment, Nesta had griped at him, frustrated that after his first three days in the camp, Amael had still been acting like a male who had been kicked while he was down. Cassian had barked at her to be quiet, but Nesta had continued on to rant and rave about Amael not having any honor. "Make the best of what you have," she had snapped at him. "You're here, and there's no going back. Make a place for yourself here, like I did."

And so he had. Amael had thrown himself head-first into his training, going head to head with Cassian whenever he was given the chance. His uncle never seemed to mind, but there were times when Cassian was needed elsewhere, in Velaris or in another war camp, and Amael was left to his own devices. He sometimes sparred with Nesta, but she often wanted nothing to do with him and instead sent him off into the fighting pitch.

He was returning from the pitch, Cassian gone off to Velaris, when a female stepped into his path, muscled arms crossed over her chest. Her face was sharp and beautiful, darkly tanned from the time she spent training in the sun, and her eyes were the deepest brown. They were predatory, fixated on Amael with such fierceness that he did not dare look away. "Hello, Nylla."

"You've been here for a month," Nylla stated in greeting, quirking a perfectly manicured eyebrow at him. "And you haven't come by to see me. If I didn't know any better, Amael, I'd say you were avoiding me," Nylla tossed her hair over her shoulder, a thick brown braid that she kept wrapped up during training. She was one of the few Illyrian females who did not shy from combat. "After last time, I would think I'd have been the first stop on your list when you got here."

Amael smiled half-heartedly. "I'm sorry," he said. "I've been busy. I can come by in a couple of days, if you want? Cassian—"

"Isn't here," Nylla reminded him, spreading her wings and sauntering over the space between them. She pressed her palm flat against his chest and smiled. "My father is gone, too. He won't be back for days," her eyes darted towards the hut she had recently stalked out of, empty save for a burning hearth. "Believe me—Nesta won't miss you if you don't come home tonight. She's likely drunk or drinking. She always drinks when Cassian is gone."

"And you?" Amael asked, letting himself be backed towards the dull grey hut that Nylla called her home. She knew nothing but these snow-capped mountains, the freezing temperature of the Steppes where winters were long and harsh; perhaps in another life, Amael would have a desire to someday show her more. "What do you do when _I'm_ gone?" It was a loaded question, dangerous, even, but Amael did not care for her answer. She could do what and who she pleased so long as he did not have to hear about it.

Nylla smiled coyly at him. "I train," she answered simply. "Among other things."

He hummed an acknowledgement, stepping back through the threshold of mud and stone. It was a small house, a single round room with a fire burning in the center. A bed was pressed into the wall, and small bathroom with a toilet and sink were hidden behind a torn up partition. Nylla's wings blocked the entrance once Amael was inside, keeping him in should he decide to change his mind, but he would not. He was drawn to her, like starlight was drawn to the moon, and he could not leave now if he wanted to.

Amael would not deny she was beautiful, as most Illyrians were. She was strong, a fierce warrior in her own right, and she had passed her Blood Rite the same season as Amael, the first female ever to do so. Nylla was brazen and cunning and fearless, perhaps so unlike Amael that he could not help but to be entranced by her. But there was something about her that was missing, an essence that did not allow him to love her, to feel anything for her at all beyond what they shared in bed. There was no emotional attachment, nothing that kept him tethered to her.

Her fingers slipped beneath his armor, pressing into the sharply defined muscle there. "If you don't stop looking so sad," Nylla murmured, drawing him back to his senses. "I think I'll have to do something about it." She pried at the thick metal buckles that kept the leather strapped to his chest, then tossed it away near the hearth, the flames dancing high to the ceiling.

"Nylla," he said softly, swallowing hard as she stroked a finger along his wing, the membrane sparkling in the light of the fire. She looked up at him, her dark head quirked to the side. "This is the last time."

She paused and then touched his wing again, tracing over the bone between his shoulder blades. "You always say that," Nylla mused, unbuttoning the slats of his shirt and peeling it away from his wings. "And you always come back. Is that girl in Velaris not good enough? The High Lord's daughter. I've heard she's a pretty thing."

"She's perfect," Amael whispered. "But I'm the one not good enough."

Nylla caught his eye, then reached for his belt and unbuckled it. "What a shame," she said. "She'll never know what she's missing."

___________

Cassian was slouched in a chair at the kitchen table when Amael returned home the next morning, his hair a mess and armor slung over his shoulder. His uncle raised an eyebrow. "Long night?" he asked, dunking a piece of bread into a bowl of stew. Amael did not answer as he dropped into the seat across from him. "I have word from Velaris, if you want it."

"What word?" Amael asked, his voice still raspy with sleep. He was barely conscious when he had slipped from Nylla's hut, leaving her tangled amongst the bedsheets. She would not wake until noon, and Amael would deal with her then.

"You're going home for Starfall next week," Cassian told him. "And Celeste has been practicing her magic."

Startled, Amael nearly fell out of his seat. "Rhys is letting her work with Amren?"

Cassian nodded. "Apparently," he said. "Celeste's magic has been rampant since you left. No one has slept in a month. Azriel agreed to let you come home so long as Rhys let Celeste train. I didn't ask how it was going, but Amren was in a foul mood when I saw her."

"Amren's always in a foul mood," Amael said absently.

"True," Cassian agreed. "So I hope Celeste got a few good hits in. Someone needed to take one for the team and put that cranky old ancient in her place. She's not the strongest creature dwelling in the Night Court anymore."

Amael nodded, staring at the table in front of him. He did not care about Amren. He did not care if Celeste had strangled her with darkness or smothered her with starlight down her throat. Amael was going home, and he would be damned if he did not stay there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been a while since I've updated. I tend to forget to post here...lol. This story is 18 chapters deep on Fanfiction.net under the same username and title if you're interested in reading ahead.


	15. Fifteen.

The Night Court was famous for Starfall, the only place in Prythian from which the event could be seen. Celeste had never been to the festival, had never danced in the streets or drank herself silly with her family, but she had always watched the celebrations from the roof. It was her favorite night of the year, when the darkness was cleaved apart by starlight, and the view from the river-house was beautiful.

It was strange not to be headed there now, to the roof with Amael where they would watch the stars until morning. But Amael was still in the Steppes, and Rhysand had persuaded Celeste to join her family for the festivities. They were to leave for the Rainbow soon; she and her parents were already gathered in the foyer, Feyre fussing with the straps of Celeste's dress while they waited for Azriel and Morrigan.

"Cerridwen and Nuala were supposed to tailor this to fit you," Feyre was grumbling, batting Rhys' hands away when he tried to offer his help. "Just because your mother was a seamstress doesn't mean that you know how to fix this," she glared at her mate half-heartedly. "Unless you've suddenly learned how to use your magic to keep clothes on instead of take them off, I highly suggest letting me do this."

A low laugh rumbled through the High Lord's chest. He smiled fondly at his family, a spark in his eyes that Feyre had not seen in years. Rhysand was happy, brimming with such unabashed hope and light that it was contagious. Starfall had always brought out the best in him, had always made him giddy and spirited and childlike. He would dance and drink and float amongst his people until the sun rose high the next morning, and this time Celeste would be with him. Feyre knew it was what excited him most.

But Celeste was not happy and full of hope; she was not giddy or spirited or anything that resembled her father. She was shuffling from foot to foot, ice and shadows flickering at the tips of her fingers. Feyre took her hands and squeezed them, reminding her that Celeste was in control, not the magic. "Breathe," she murmured. "Your lessons with Amren have gone well. You'll be fine tonight."

She took a breath through her nose, willing the magic away. Celeste imagined it swirling beneath her skin, skittering along her bones until it settled deep inside them. She imagined it lying dormant, slumbering until she called upon it for power and safety and strength. Celeste would not need that tonight, not while she celebrated with her family, and so she imagined locking it with a chain, an internal damper that Amren had helped her create.

Footsteps sounded on the stairs at the same time the front door of the river-house crashed open. Celeste startled, jumping back until she bumped into her father's chest. He rested a calming hand on her shoulder. Mor and Azriel appeared at the bottom of the staircase, and Cassian lumbered into the foyer, grinning like a cat with a canary in its mouth. Nesta followed him in, but Celeste's eyes slid straight past her and to the Illyrian still hesitating in the threshold.

Amael met her gaze, surprised to see her in the foyer. He was even more surprised to find that she was dressed, her small frame wrapped in sheer blue fabric. It sparkled as it caught the light, the bodice encrusted with small silver stones meant to shine like starlight. The silk straps skimmed just beneath her collarbone, and a glittering chiffon cape fell over her shoulders to the ground. A necklace circled her throat, a large sapphire pendant dangling down to rest in the center of her chest. The dress had been borrowed from her mother, and Amren had lent her the jewels.

Nesta elbowed Amael in the ribs. "Pick up your jaw," she snapped at him. Amael blinked out of his stupor. He had not realized that the foyer had gone utterly silent. "Have some dignity instead of undressing my niece with your eyes. She has nothing that you haven't seen before."

Across the foyer, Celeste's cheeks heated with a blush. She ducked her head and shuffled closer to Rhysand, a silent plea for refuge. Her father slung his arm around her shoulders. "As riveting as this is," he said. "I think we could all use a drink. Shall we?" Rhys motioned towards the door with a broad, calloused hand.

The Inner Circle filed out into the street, Celeste tucked safely between her parents. Amael kept his distance as they made their way to the Rainbow, dropping back to walk next to Cassian. He pointedly ignored his father who silently kept pace with Mor, her arm looped through his elbow. Amren did not join them, and Elain and Lucien had disappeared into the festivities hours ago.

Music drifted into the plaza from every corner of the city, fiddles and drums clashing into a beautiful symphony. Morrigan drifted off into a crowd of dancing faeries, Azriel following close behind with shadows twisting over his shoulders. Nesta sought out an open bar, opening a tab that Cassian would pay for her later. The Illyrian trailed her at a distance, sniffing out food while ensuring she stayed out of trouble.

Amael took a breath as he was left alone with the High Lord and Lady and their daughter. Celeste's attention was being drawn in every direction, her amethyst eyes bouncing around until they settled on a nearby harpist. She folded her arms around herself, and if her parents noticed the shadows beginning to spark at her fingertips, they simply chose not to address it.

"Celeste," Amael beckoned softly, surprised that she actually turned to him. He hesitated, then held out his hand. "Can we talk?"

She looked to her parents as though she were asking for permission, but Rhysand waved at them in dismissal. The High Lord knew that they needed to talk, and he would not let Celeste use him and Feyre as scapegoats. She had no choice but take Amael's hand, her fingers pressing tightly into his palm.

Celeste let him guide her through the crowd, her magic stirring beneath its chain the further he led her away. She did not know what she was afraid of: being alone with Amael after she had spent so much time avoiding him, or being away from her parents in the middle of a crowded festival. Both, she supposed, were terrifying.

Amael took her to the bridge over the Sidra, close enough to the Rainbow that they could still hear the music, but far enough away that they would not be interrupted. He let Celeste go and was not surprised when she curled her fingers into fists, smothering the shadows that were gathering there. "I won't keep you long," Amael promised. "I just wanted to talk."

"About what?" Celeste asked, jumping as a horn blew from the plaza. Her magic flared, and Amael watched her stifle it. "It's Starfall, and I'm not keeping you on the roof this year. Don't you want to enjoy yourself?"

"I'll enjoy myself after we talk," Amael said. "And hopefully, you will too. I know how much tonight means to you," his wings rustled, and when Amael realized that Celeste was not going to speak, he sighed. "What did I do wrong, Celeste?" he asked despairingly. "Why have you shut me out?"

She did not look at him. "You haven't done anything wrong," Celeste answered quietly. "I'm sorry if I made you feel that way, I just—" her palms iced over, a newly discovered power that Amren had helped her unleash. She supposed it was better than darkness, but she lost control of it just as easily. "I've had some things that I needed to figure out."

"Please," Amael begged. "Don't lie to me. You're an awful liar, and I can see it on your face."

Celeste willed the ice from her veins, imagined it melting into her bones. "I'm not lying, Amael. I needed to take a step back. I…" she swallowed thickly, an emotion flashing through her eyes that Amael could not register. "I didn't want to get in the way."

"Get in the way of what?" Amael questioned, his voice hardly above a whisper. He tentatively reached for Celeste's hand, realizing that it was covered in a thin layer of frost only as she pulled it away. Amael frowned. "Is that new?"

She nodded. "I've been working with Amren," Celeste told him. "It was the only way that Azriel would let you come home. But you don't have to if you don't want to. I wouldn't blame you if didn't."

"Velaris is my home," Amael said to her, and he did not understand what would make her think otherwise. She knew that he hated the Steppes. "This is where I want to be. But if _you_ would rather I stay in the mountains, then I will. I won't come back if you don't want me here. I just ask that you tell me why."

Her pale eyes filled with tears, and Amael moved closer on instinct. He did not want her to cry—that was not why he brought her to the bridge. "I want you here," Celeste said hoarsely, her magic beginning to rise inside of her. She struggled to keep it contained. "But Azriel sent you away because he doesn't think it's safe for you to be near me, and Cassian told me about that female in the Steppes—"

Amael's dark eyes widened. "Female in the Steppes?" he said, and suddenly it began to make sense; why Celeste had shoved him away and had put so much distance between them. Why she could not look him in the eye or stand to be in the same room as him. " _That's_ what this is about? You think that you're getting in the way of me and _Nylla_? Cauldrons, Celeste, why didn't you just ask me about her instead of taking Cassian's word for it?"

Celeste flinched away from him. "It wasn't my place to ask," she explained, darkness snapping at the chain. "You never told me about her, and I assumed you had a reason."

The Illyrian could not believe it—Nylla. Celeste had pushed him away because of _Nylla_.

"I didn't tell you about her because she wasn't important," Amael said, raking a hand through his hair. Nesta had trimmed it for him that morning. "Nylla is—she's _nothing,_ Celeste. A way to pass the time when I'm in the Steppes. If you think for one second that Nylla is more important to me than _you_ are—"

"I didn't know," Celeste rasped, swallowing down a mouthful of shadows. "You never told me, Amael, and I thought that maybe it was because you were afraid I'd get in the way," a tear rolled down her cheek that she hastily wiped away. "If she was who made you happy, then I wanted that for you. You deserved it. I thought that if I pushed you away, you'd realize that it was okay for you to go. You couldn't be with her if you stayed in Velaris with me."

Shaking his head, Amael's wings slumped to the ground behind him. "I should have told you about her," he admonished quietly. "But I didn't because Nylla's not important to me. I don't care about her," Amael reached for her hand, and this time she did not pull away. He brushed his thumb across the back of fingers, her pale skin cold with frost. "I appreciate that you want me to be happy, but I'm perfectly content here with you. Please don't ever think otherwise unless you ask me first."

"I'm sorry," Celeste said, then forced her way into his arms.

Amael's wings closed tightly around them, blocking out the sounds of rushing water and merriment. Celeste buried her face into his shoulder, her trembling fingers curling into the fabric of his tunic. Despite the thick grey material, Amael could feel the ice that coated her hands. Celeste whimpered when the Illyrian shivered. "It's all right," he murmured, petting the back of her hair. "I just spent five weeks in the Steppes. Icy fingers don't bother me."

"Please stay," Celeste pleaded, her voice muffled against his chest. Amael felt her press herself closer, her heeled shoes knocking against his leather boots. "Please don't go back to the Steppes."

"I won't," he promised her quietly, his wings curling in even tighter. "I'll stay here for as long as you'll have me."


	16. Sixteen.

Winter was near in the Night Court, but Celeste did not feel the cold. She did not feel the frigid air that whipped through the streets of Velaris, nor did she feel the threat of snow that came with it. Perhaps it was because she was dancing amongst her people in the Rainbow, bouncing on her heels and swaying to the beat of old drums. Perhaps it was because the patio had been heated with magic, the club owner's attempt to draw in more customers and press expensive drinks into their hands. Perhaps it was because she was wearing Amael's tunic, warm and loose and smelling of the sea and moonflowers.

Celeste had insisted that he keep it, that Amael should not suffer because her own taste in practical fashion had been poor. The Illyrian, of course, had not listened to her, peeling off his tunic and thrusting it into Celeste's freezing hands. He'd worn nothing underneath except a long-sleeved undershirt, but he had promised Celeste that the dark-grey material was enough to keep him warm. Celeste had slipped the tunic on over her dress, shivering and grumbling about the cold. Amael had hardly seemed fazed by it.

They paid no mind to the crowd, to the faeries that stumbled into Celeste or brushed against Amael's wings, and simply enjoyed the merriment of Starfall. Celeste was not a great dancer, but Amael pretended not to notice when she clumsily stepped on his feet. She could shatter his toes or break his ankles and Amael would not care.

All that mattered was they were together, that Amael had promised not to go back to the Steppes unless he were ordered there by the High Lord. He and Celeste had returned from the bridge soon after, hand in hand and smiling, and they had eventually wandered into Rita's, a nightclub frequented by their family. Amael had spotted Morrigan in the crowd, flitting between Cassian and Azriel with a drink in her hand. If any of them had noticed their arrival, they had graciously left them alone. He had not seen them since.

It was nearly midnight when the crowds began to quiet, when Amael placed a gentle hand on Celeste's waist and slowly spun her around. He pointed with a finger just as a star shot across the sky, tumbling through the night on its way to wherever it was going. Another star, then another, and then the darkness above was extinguished. Celeste's smile was nearly as bright, her amethyst eyes shining with mirth as she bounced on the heels of her feet.

Amael watched her, starlight illuminating the delicate angles of her face. Her mouth was moving, but Amael did not know if she were speaking to him; if she were counting the stars as they burst across the sky like fireworks. He did not know if it were her heart or his own that he heard beating loudly in his ears, but it drowned out everything else. Celeste had taken his hand and was squeezing it, leaning into his chest as she enjoyed the namesake of the night. The stars would come until morning, and Amael did not doubt Celeste would stand here until then to watch them all.

"I wish this were every night," she mused, drawing Amael back to his senses. He blinked at her, but she did not notice. "Maybe then I wouldn't be so afraid of the dark. The stars are so beautiful."

He could not stop himself from saying it. "So are you."

Celeste turned to him, her dark head quirked to the side. The smile slowly fell from her face. "That's not funny," she said, suddenly very conscious that she was swimming in the folds of his tunic, the thick material hanging to her knees. It did not give her any shape, and it destroyed her hair when she had pulled it on over her head. "You don't mean that."

"I do," Amael insisted quietly. He reached for her, brushing her hair out from in front of her face as though he knew she were bothered by it. He feared she would balk at the contact, that perhaps he was overstepping so soon after they had cleared the air, but she did not. Instead, she watched him carefully, tracking his movements until he rested his palm against her cheek. "I'm sorry I've never said it before."

She swallowed, studying the way the starlight danced across his skin; the way it reflected in his eyes that appeared more green than brown tonight. "If you're only telling me what you think I want to hear because of what happened…" Celeste's slender fingers wrapped around Amael's wrist, ready to pull him away should she think that he was only trying to placate her. "I understand why you didn't tell me about Nylla. You don't need to—"

"I'm _not_ telling you what I think you want to hear," Amael assured her. "I'm telling you because I mean it—because I think you look absolutely stunning and I'm a fool for not having said it sooner," he traced his thumb across her cheek, and he did not comment on the way she leaned into his hand. "If you forgive me for anything tonight, can it be that? That I waited until now to say it?"

"There's nothing for me to forgive you for."

Amael took a breath. He prayed to the Cauldron, to the Mother, to whoever was out there that might be listening, and ducked his head and kissed her. It was nothing more than a gentle press of their lips, but Celeste did not push him away. She did not slap him across the face, and she did not curse him for having been so invasive without asking. Instead, he swore that he felt her press closer, huffing in frustration as she fumbled with where to put her hands.

She settled for placing her palms against his chest, but Amael gently pulled away. His dark eyes scanned her violet ones, searching for anything at all that may resemble fear, but there was nothing. "I'm sorry," he began, but the Princess of the Night Court shook her head.

"Don't be," Celeste murmured, her pale cheeks flushed from something other than the cold. She could not believe what he had done, that Amael had crossed over some undisclosed boundary and kiss her. She worried about what it may have meant, what it may have changed between them. She worried that he had not enjoyed it as much as she had, clumsy and jittery as she may have been, and that perhaps it had meant more to her than to him.

Amael drummed his fingers against her cheek. "Stop thinking," he said quietly. Celeste lifted her eyes to meet his gaze. An apology shone in his eyes. "I won't do it again if—"

Celeste rose up onto her toes, kissing him with a blind curiosity that had Amael chuckling against her lips. He moved both hands to her waist, his calloused fingers scraping against the fabric of his tunic; he would never ask for it back. It looked better on her than it did him.

When she rocked back down onto her heels, Celeste stepped away and was nervously biting at her lip. "I'm sorry," she told him bashfully. "I wanted to try it twice before you realized how much you may have hated it."

"Try it a third time if you'd like," Amael said to her, a smile pulling at his mouth. "I didn't hate—"

He did not see it happen, but he felt it. The ground beneath them trembled as the Sidra's current shifted, and the starlight above cleaved apart. Darkness swarmed in from across the river, the kind that was rage and cold and terrifying, and Celeste sucked in a breath. For a moment, she was afraid that this horror was of her own doing, that her magic had slipped its leash. But that damper inside of her was still strong, the iron chain still locked over her slumbering power.

Amael grabbed her hand and pulled her, dragging her away just as the wards around Velaris burst apart, shattering into tendrils of flickering magic. "Amael," Celeste whimpered, twisting in his grasp to look up at him. His face was wreathed in shadows, and for once he did not order them away. "Amael, what—"

" _Move_ ," he barked at her, his Illyrian instincts roaring at him: _protect, protect, protect_. Celeste did not try to speak again, her heeled feet clacking against the cobblestone street.

He knocked other faeries from their path, screaming and scrambling into the nearest shop or bar, places where Celeste would not be safe. The river-house—Amael had to get her to the river-house. The wards there would not break, not before Rhysand and the others found them.

From across the river was the furious flapping of wings. Amael dared a glance over his shoulder, his own wings curling around Celeste as he continued to propel her forward. He did not know the creatures that were soaring between the mountains, but they were dark and cruel and wicked. They crashed head-first into the shields that shot up over Velaris, red and blue from Cassian and Azriel's siphons, and buckled them.

Amael cursed the Illyrian shields shattered. Winged demons dove down into the city, dark grey skin stretched tightly over muscle and bone. Celeste screamed at the sight of them, at the gangly limbs that were swinging blades and hatchets. "Keep going," Amael commanded, reaching for the sword that was sheathed down the center of his spine. "We need to get to the river-house. You'll be safe there."

Faeries scattered as one of the winged creatures thudded heavily to the ground. It swung its blade and gutted a male with blue skin, spraying his blood against the cobblestone. Amael cringed at the sheer brutality of it, grasping his own sword tightly in his hand. He would not fight unless he had to, lest it slow him down and separate him from Celeste, but the guilt he felt leaving these people defenseless… Amael swallowed it down and forged ahead.

He could see the river-house from the bridge. The estates property was glowing beneath dimly lit faelights, untouched from the carnage in the Rainbow. Amael breathed deeply with relief, then nearly collapsed with it when he saw the Illyrian male waiting for them. Perhaps Amael was still angry with him, but he had never been so happy to see his father.

With the slaughtering and bloodshed around them, Amael did not notice the widening of Azriel's eyes. He did not notice the half-step that his father took towards them, nor the shadows that raced over the cobblestone, reaching for the Shadowsinger and Celeste.

He did not notice a Cauldrons-damned thing until an arrow was protruding from his chest, shot through the space between his wings. Amael stumbled before hitting the ground, dragging Celeste down with him. Azriel hadn't had the time to warn them.

 


	17. Seventeen.

One moment, Azriel was at the other end of the bridge, his fingers outstretched for his son. The next, he was on his knees beside them, one hand braced on Amael's shoulder, the other squeezing Celeste's fingers. The Princess of the Night Court blinked as they became smoke and shadows, winnowing the short distance into the river-house. They crashed to the ground in the foyer, Amael's blood spreading across the white marble floor. Celeste's dress and his tunic were covered in it.

Azriel cursed at the arrow through the center of his chest. He snapped off the end and sniffed at it, then snarled as he tossed it aside. "It's an ash arrow," Azriel said, a tone of lethal calm. He would carve apart whoever had done this with Truth-Teller. "Covered in bloodbane. I have to get it out. Celeste, sit him up."

She clawed at Amael's shoulders, grunting beneath his weight as she lifted him up and held him. Amael sagged against her arm around his torso; Celeste felt the blood that spilled from his chest, staining his grey tunic red. She tried to ignore it, the warmth of it against her cold skin. She tried to make herself watch as Azriel prodded at the arrow, assessing if he could safely remove it, but she couldn't. Celeste could not watch as Azriel gripped the feathered end and slowly pulled the arrow out of him. She heard it slide through his skin, heard it grind against muscle and bone, heard the cry that escaped through his lips as Amael tensed in her arms.

"It's okay," Celeste whispered into his ear, pressing her forehead to his temple. "You're okay," she squeezed him from the side, her shaking hands gripping him as though his life depended on it. Judging by the amount of blood he had lost, perhaps it did. She held him tighter. "You're all right."

"Lay him down," Azriel instructed, his cobalt siphons flaring. Celeste did as she was told, lowering him to the ground with such heartbreaking gentleness that Azriel nearly thanked her for it. She pulled Amael's head into her lap, her fingers stroking the sides of his face, and they both pretended not to hear the Illyrian's low groan of pain. "He needs Feyre," Azriel said quietly, pressing his palm against the wound in Amael's chest. A web of blue magic patched over the hole there, staunching the flow of blood.

Celeste screamed out for her mother in her mind, tugging on that familial bond between them, but Feyre did not answer her. She called for Rhysand, but the High Lord's shields were so strong and so impenetrable that Celeste did not know if she had reached him. "I can't hear them," Celeste rasped. Azriel looked up at her. "I tried to call for them, for Mom and Dad, but they're not answering me. You don't think they're—"

His voice was surprisingly tender. "If something had happened to your parents," Azriel murmured. "Their power would have shifted to you, and you'd have felt it. You would be the new High Lady," Azriel patted her knee before returning his attention to his son. "Rhysand and Feyre are fine, just preoccupied with saving the city."

Amael's breathing became wet, struggling gasps for air as he twisted and writhed against the floor. Blood trickled from the corners of his mouth, his skin flushed so pale that Celeste wondered how he had anything left to bleed. "Azriel," she whimpered, wiping away the blood with her thumb. Panic surged up her spine when Amael's eyes fluttered shut. "Your siphons can't heal him?"

"It can staunch the bleeding long enough that he'll heal on his own," Azriel explained to her, noting that Celeste's hands were still trembling as she combed her fingers through Amael's hair. "But the bloodbane…" even he cringed when Amael groaned again. "There's nothing I can do to help him. The poison is already in his blood. Feyre could heal him, but—"

The scream that tore from the back of Amael's throat was unlike anything Celeste had ever heard before. But Azriel must have been prepared for it; he calmly pinned Amael to the floor, his scarred hands pressing into his shoulders to keep him grounded. Amael thrashed beneath him as the bloodbane wormed through his veins, his muscles taut and strained. Azriel grunted as he struggled to keep him down.

Tears burned in the corners of Celeste's violet eyes. She did not want to look, not as Azriel pinned him to the ground, and not as Amael thrashed and screamed, his body and wings contorting from the pain of the bloodbane.

Something snapped inside of her, something that Azriel must have felt or sensed because he glanced up at Celeste through his lashes, but she could not pay it any mind. She could not ponder what it was, this new thing in her chest that felt both familiar and foreign—her magic slipped its leash, awakening from its fitful slumber with a vengeance.

But it was not darkness that leaked from her bones and roiled like a fire beneath her skin. It was not shadows or ice that flickered at the tips of her fingers. _Save him, save him, save him,_ her magic sang to her, and it was light and warmth that poured from the palms of her hands, pure and calm but unyielding. Azriel cursed.

"Celeste—"

 _Save him, save him, save him,_ the light beckoned. _You have your mother's power, a gift from the High Lord of Dawn. Do this now, or he'll die._

"Give me Truth-Teller," Celeste murmured, lifting her eyes to meet Azriel's. The Illyrian did not obey her. "Azriel, I can save him. I know how," she held out a glowing hand, expectant. "I know you don't trust me, but please. Let me try. Let me try and save him."

Azriel clenched his jaw, and it was fear that iced his veins. "If you make it worse—"

"I won't," Celeste said desperately, cringing as Amael screamed. "Azriel, _please_. You're not the only one who loves him," her pale eyes filled with tears again. "You have to let me try."

Shadows curled into his ears, whispering assurance to the Shadowsinger. His palm brushed against the obsidian handle of Truth-Teller, but he did not remove it from its sheath. "If this doesn't work," Azriel said hoarsely. "You'll stop. You will not keep trying."

She nodded once. "You have my word."

Azriel handed her the knife.

Celeste drew the blade against her flesh, blood flowing from her wrist. Too deep of a cut, perhaps, but it was already starting to heal, her skin knitting back together. She held it to Amael's mouth. "Drink," she said to him, twisting her arm until her blood spilled through his lips. He gagged and turned his head away, but Azriel's fingers gripped his chin and held him there. "It'll save you, you stubborn, overgrown bat. Just drink it."

A mouthful, then two, then— "That's enough," Azriel murmured, gently nudging Celeste's arm away. "You gave enough."

She blinked. The cut across her wrist had healed, a faint white scar the only trace of its infliction. Amael had settled beneath Azriel's hands, the color returning to his cheeks as Celeste's blood combated the poison, washing it away and healing the damage in its wake. "Is he—"

"He'll be fine," Azriel told her, and there was relief in his hazel eyes. He reached for Celeste's hand and squeezed it, his thumb brushing gently over the scar from which she'd drawn own her blood. "Thank you."

The light dimmed from her palms, but it was darkness that snuffed it out. Celeste tensed against it, trying to shove it back down, but her magic began to sing again. _You can save your people, too_ , it crooned. _Your power can destroy the Attor. All you must do is unleash it. Like calls to like, Heir of Night. They're made of death and shadows._

Celeste did not let herself think about it, did not let herself consider any consequences—not if she could save Velaris. She took a breath and forced herself up onto her feet, careful to avoid the blood pooled there. She vaguely heard Azriel calling for her, a bark of warning not to go outside as she scrambled to the open front door. The Princess chose to obey, standing in the moonstone threshold. Her heart cracked inside her chest at the carnage that lay in the streets, at the blood that stained the grey cobblestone. People— _her_ people—were dead beneath the light of Starfall.

"What are you doing?" Azriel demanded. "Get back in here, Celeste!"

She raised her hands, surprisingly steady beneath the weight of her fear and grief, and sank into the depth of her power. She jumped over that edge inside of her, into the pit that swelled with her magic. Darkness flooded through Velaris. Azriel cursed as shadows skittered through the foyer, rousing Amael back into consciousness as they flitted over his chest and wings.

Her magic ravaged the streets, tapping and knocking and prodding at faeries with tendrils of star-flecked night. It did not harm her people, whirling away as it deemed them not a threat, but the Attor… Screams echoed through the city, Celeste's magic slaughtering the beasts from the continent. It sucked the life from their bodies, shredding their wings and sending them crashing into the Sidra. Her darkness turned them into husks, corpses of flesh and bone drained dry and left to rot where they fell.

"Celeste, enough!" It was Rhysand that called out to her, his voiced piercing through the magic's thrall, loud and hoarse and full of terror. But Celeste could not stop— _would_ not stop—until all of the winged beasts were dead. She would make them pay for what they had done, to Amael, to Starfall, to her city. "Celeste, stop!"

Strong hands gripped her waist, spinning her away from outside. "Come back," Amael whispered. He did not balk from the shadows that danced against his chest, prodding at the scar in the center of it, silvery white against his tanned skin. Celeste looked at him without seeing, her head quirked to the side as though she could not understand what he was telling her. "You saved them," he murmured, lifting his hand to gently stroke her cheek. "You saved _me_. Now come back."

She blinked, but the darkness did not dissipate.

"Come back," Amael said again, harder this time. "There's nothing left to protect you from. Let your magic settle."

"It's not protecting me," Celeste said numbly. "It's protecting you."

"I'm fine," Amael revised calmly, his own shadows dancing with Celeste's, taming them down into submission. "I'm safe. You made sure of that," he pressed a kiss to her brow. "Now come back to me."

Celeste blinked again, the haze slowly clearing from her eyes. She saw him standing in front of her, whole and not in pain. "Amael," she breathed, her shadows sputtering out. She placed her hand against his chest, covering the scar from the arrow. She felt his heart beat against her palm, strong and quick and alive. "You're all right."

Amael nodded his head. "I'm all right."

She swayed on her feet, but Amael caught her as her knees buckled. He brought them both to the ground, his wings closing around her as she curled into his chest and cried. The magic seeped back into her bones, settling into a deep slumber as the lock on her chain clicked into place. Her darkness faded from the streets, and Velaris was left in a silence. Not a soul spoke of what Celeste had done.

Rhysand dropped to his knees beside them, reaching for Celeste to pull her from the Illyrian's arms, but Amael shoved him back with a rough hand to the shoulder. "Don't touch her," he snarled, leaving the High Lord wide-eyed. Rhys recoiled into the threshold, Feyre kneeling beside him.

"Amael," she began gently, but Celeste cut her off.

"Mate," she rasped, reeling as her magic became dormant. Celeste looked up at Amael with tears in her eyes, her fingers grasping at the blood-soaked fabric of his undershirt. "You're my mate."

"Yes," Amael said. "I know."


	18. Eighteen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There MIGHT be two updates today, just a heads up! This story is also posted on fanfic.net and it's always been a few chapters ahead over there. After this chapter, there's only one more to post before they're caught up on both websites. This chapter is a bit of a filler and is kind of boring and mainly dialogue, but it's necessary due to the decision made at the end. I wrote it while in a bad headspace, so please forgive me for that. Anyway! Enjoy.

Rhysand paced along the mantel in the sitting room, the heat from the burning hearth warming his frigid hands. He raked his fingers through his hair and did not realize they were trembling, that this strange, simmering feeling inside of him was pure, unabashed fear the likes of which the High Lord had never felt before. Starfall had been catastrophic, the merriment ripped from his grasp when the wards had shattered around Velaris, striking him straight to the core.

Those first few moments, he'd been angry—blinded by such feral rage that even Feyre had not been able to reach him. But then it subsided, washed away by a frantic need to find his child and hide her. Rhysand had not seen Celeste since Amael had led her away. He had left them alone to sort out their problems in peace, and had urged the others to do the same. Mor had reported seeing them at Rita's, but had lost sight of them in the chaos of the attack.

Rhys had torn through his city searching for her—had winnowed from shop to shop to see if Amael might have hidden her there. But then darkness had poured into the streets, a tendril of magic snapping at Rhysand until it deemed the High Lord safe. He knew in that moment where she was, that Celeste was somewhere inside the river-house and was unleashing her power upon Velaris. The fear had settled inside of him then, and it had not left him since.

The Inner Circle did not speak as Rhysand moved, beaten and bloody and bruised, but there were more important things to tend to than their injuries. Celeste had barely been conscious when Rhysand had sent her upstairs, carried there by a snarling Illyrian who _dared_ them to look at the Princess. It was odd to see Amael so feral, but their mating bond had clicked into place tonight, pushed into alignment when that arrow had ripped through his chest.

It was Cassian who was brave enough to speak first, his body a red patchwork of magic. He was sprawled across the couch next to Nesta, his arm slung across the back of it behind her. "Are the wards back up?" he asked tentatively. Amren nodded once in confirmation, slouched in the chair across from him. She had spent herself helping Rhysand restore them. "Do we know who sent those Attor?"

"Of course we do," Rhysand spat, turning to glare at his friend. Cassian seemed to sink into the cushions. "It was another test—one that Celeste passed with flying colors," the High Lord threw himself onto another couch next to Feyre. She laid a gentle hand on his knee to try calming him, but his frustration would not be deterred. "The Mortal Queens attacked Velaris to draw her out; to see if she were strong enough to defend her city, and she did."

Mor's voice was unusually quiet as she spoke. "I've never seen that kind of darkness before," she said, curled up next to Azriel in a chaise near the fire. "Not even from you, Rhys. I _felt_ it—like it plunged inside of me to see if I were a threat to Velaris. It left when it realized I wasn't."

"I felt it, too," Elain added softly, perched in Lucien's lap. His arms were tight around her waist, his metal eye whirring as he scanned the faces in the sitting room. They were just as frightened as he was, his heart still sputtering from Celeste's magical invasion. "How is it possible to do what she did? Distinguish friend from foe from so far away and slaughter an entire army without lifting a hand?"

The High Lord winced. "I don't know," he said. "But even I couldn't have done what she did."

"She can't stay in Velaris," Feyre murmured, her grey-blue eyes dull with unashamed terror. "If they were able to shatter the wards once, they can do it again. Celeste isn't safe here," she squeezed Rhysand's knee and drew his attention, and something akin to devastation contorted his features. "Now that they know what she's capable of, they'll come back for her."

Rhysand shook his head. "I won't send her away," he said hoarsely. "We'll protect her."

"The house's wards will only hold for so long," Cassian reminded him. "If we take her somewhere else, the Mortal Queens will have to track her down again. That might buy us enough time to come up with a plan to take them out."

"Why not just let Celeste unleash her magic on them?" Lucien asked, wincing beneath the several eyes that turned to him. "You saw what she did tonight. If she's capable of taking out an entire army sent here to destroy the city, she could handle a couple of human Queens. She could kill them before they attack again."

"She could," Rhysand agreed. "But that paints her as a bigger target to any allies that the Queens might have. I want to eliminate a threat, not gain more enemies," he pinched the bridge of his nose between his index finger and thumb. "If we sent her away…" his voice cracked. "I don't know where she'd be the safest."

Amren leaned forward in her seat, her elbows resting on her knees. "Send her to the Summer Court," she said. "To Adriata. Tarquin would protect her, and I will accompany her there," the ancient Fae smiled ruefully. "I was due there a month ago, and Varian has not forgiven me for canceling my trip."

"Tarquin thinks that Celeste is dead." Feyre reminded her.

She waved her hand in dismissal. "Tarquin will understand," Amren replied. "He will not blame Rhysand for doing what it took to keep his child safe. He delighted in Celeste when she was young. He'll be happy to a see an old friend returning to him."

Cassian snorted. "So, what? We just show up on his doorstep and hand Celeste over?"

"Of course not, boy," Amren sneered at him. "We call a meeting and we bring him here. Tarquin knows of Velaris' existence, though he's never visited. It's a safe space to reintroduce them, and should Tarquin agree to look after her, Celeste and I will return to Adriata with him."

"And Amael," Azriel spoke softly, shadows wreathing his neck. Rhysand's head snapped towards him. "Their mating bond is in place. We can't separate them," he swallowed thickly. "She saved my son's life, and I will not soon forget that. Amael can go with Celeste and keep her safe. So long as Tarquin agrees, of course."

Amren shrugged her shoulders. "I doubt he'll mind. Shall I send for the High Lord?"

Rhysand dragged a calloused hand over his face, his fingers still trembling. "Yes," he croaked. Feyre sucked in a breath. "Should he agree, you and Amael will go with her," his eyes slid across the room. "You, too, Azriel. I want you to go as well."

The Shadowsinger nodded once, a slight dip of his chin in acknowledgement. "I'll protect her with my life. You know that."

He took a painful breath. "Send for Tarquin," Rhysand said to Amren. "I want him here tomorrow."


	19. Nineteen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **SECOND UPDATE OF TODAY!** 
> 
> Make sure you guys read the previous chapter before this one, otherwise the whole "Tarquin" thing might not make sense.

A quiet knock on her bedroom door was the only warning that Amael gave her before slipping inside Celeste's room. She was standing in the center, her arms wrapped around herself as she surveyed what she would soon be leaving behind. Celeste had no doubt that Tarquin would take her to the Summer Court, that he would be happy to learn she was still alive, but that did not make leaving any easier.

When Amael had left her room that morning, he had done so on near-silent feet so as not to wake his mate. The gentle snick of the door closing behind him was all that had given him away, and it had been enough to wake the Princess of the Night Court. Celeste had laid in bed for nearly an hour before Feyre had come in to get her up, informing her that Tarquin and Varian would arrive by early afternoon.

Her bags were packed and resting near her bedroom door; one full of clothes and toiletries, the other full of her art supplies. She had not painted or sketched in months, but perhaps the Summer Court would offer her some sort of muse. Before she'd grown afraid of water, Celeste had always loved the ocean. She loved the smell of the salty air and the feel of white sand beneath her feet, the sound of the waves lapping against the shore. Perhaps she would visit the beach while she was there, but she would not go in the water.

"Tarquin will be here soon," Amael told her quietly. He stood in front of Celeste, but he did not reach for her. He kept a respectable distance between them, and he would wait for Celeste to come to him. "Rhysand wants to speak with him first, but you and I will be waiting outside his office until he calls for you. Would you like me to stay in the hall, or go in with you?"

She looked up. Amael was dressed in his fighting leathers, his sword strapped down the column of his spine as though he were prepared for battle. Celeste did not think that Tarquin posed as a threat, but perhaps her Illyrian mate would not take that chance. _Mate_. She almost could not believe it. "I want you to go in with me."

Amael nodded, his dark hair sliding over his shoulders. "Whatever you want," he said. "But I think Tarquin will be happy to see you. Varian, too, if he's not still holding a grudge," the corners of his mouth were quirked with a small smile. "You and Tarquin nearly killed him when you flooded the ballroom in Adriata. Amren talked about it for days when you returned home."

The Princess did not speak. Instead, she took the step to close the distance between them. She buried her face into his shoulder, ignoring the cold press of his Illyrian armor against her skin. Amael's wings closed around her, his arms wrapping around her waist a moment later. "It'll be all right," he promised. "It's temporary. As soon as we figure out what to do about the Mortal Queens, we can come home."

"I'm sorry that my father is sending you away with me," Celeste said quietly. "Especially so soon after you got back. I didn't mean for this to—"

He hushed her, lifting his hand to pet the back of her hair. "I'd have gone with you regardless," Amael told her. "I spent enough time away from you while I was in the Steppes. Unless you asked me to stay here, I wouldn't let you go without me. Not when the Queens will be hunting you," his wings curled in tighter around her. "We should talk about what happened last night."

"Which part?" Celeste asked. "The part where you nearly died, or the part where I realized we were mates, but you already knew and never mentioned it?"

Amael cringed. "Both," he answered. "We should probably talk about both. Let's sit."

The Illyrian let her go. Celeste backed towards the edge of her bed and perched herself there, her feet crossed at the ankle. Amael sat down beside her, and he did not hesitate to take Celeste's hand when she offered it to him, her small fingers smooth compared to his calloused ones. "Where would you like to start?"

"You almost died last night," Celeste said. "And Azriel couldn't save you. I thought—" her voice cracked. Amael squeezed her hand. "I've never seen you like that before. You were screaming, and I couldn't—I had to—" she pushed out a breath through her nose. "My magic told me that I could save you, so I had to try. I'm sorry if I—"

"Don't apologize," Amael told her. "The only reason I'm alive is because of you. Had you not tried or had you waited for Feyre to come home…" he winced at the devastation that flashed across the Princess' face. "Don't apologize for saving me. Otherwise I'll think you regret it."

Celeste elbowed him in the ribs. "Don't say that," she grumbled. Amael chuckled. "I'd do it a thousand times if it meant that I wouldn't lose you," she traced her thumb over his knuckles. A weight settled like a stone inside her chest at the realization: she _could_ have lost Amael. The Illyrian would have died had she not given him her blood. Celeste's eyes watered. "You could have died."

"Yes," Amael said quietly. He heard the hitch in her breathing. "But I didn't—because of you."

She gently pulled her hand free, then placed it against the center of Amael's chest. His Illyrian leather was thick, but she could still feel his heart beating against her palm. She swallowed thickly as a tear rolled down her cheek. "I felt the mating bond snap into place the moment I thought you were dying."

Amael placed his hand over hers, keeping it held to his chest. "I think I knew a long time ago what we were," he admitted. Celeste lifted her eyes to his face. "But I was sure of it that night Rhysand couldn't wake you up, but I could. I was able to reach you when he couldn't, and I didn't think that it was a coincidence."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't want to force the bond on you," Amael explained. "You were dealing with enough, and I didn't want you to feel obligated to accept the bond if you didn't want it," his eyes flashed with an emotion that Celeste did not recognize. "I wanted it to be your choice."

Celeste reached for his face, cradling it against her palm as she brushed her thumb across his cheek. "I don't feel obligated," she murmured. Amael met her gaze. "I would have accepted the bond the moment you told me about it, but I appreciate that you let me take the time to figure it out for myself."

The Illyrian drew in a breath, his heart jumping beneath her palm. There was a part of him that could not believe it—she _wanted_ the bond. Amael had spent so much time convincing himself that Celeste would not accept it that it hadn't occurred to him the Princess just might surprise him. And she had—she wanted and accepted their mating bond, and had done so without hesitation.

He did not realize that he had ducked his head, that Celeste's fingers had curled around the back of his neck and that she was carefully drawing him closer. Amael would not push her; he would not close the distance between them until he was certain he knew what Celeste wanted. He waited until she were close enough that he could press his forehead to her brow, until her nose bumped against his and he heard her stifle a nervous laugh.

"I'm asking for anything more than what you're willing to give," he told her. She felt his breath against her cheek. "Not even this. I was selfish last night when I kissed you. I shouldn't have—not without asking. If you don't want to—"

"I do," Celeste said, but she was still nervous. He could hear it in the way her voice trembled. Last night, Amael had been impulsive, and Celeste had been mildly curious. It was different now. "But I'm not—I'm not that girl from the Steppes."

Amael pulled back enough to look down at her. "I know you're not," he replied quietly, tucking a strand of her hair back behind her ear. "I don't expect you to be anything like her, and I don't want you to be. Nylla was…a nice comfort to have in the Steppes. She's a good friend. But she's not you," Amael rested his palm against her cheek. "If I wanted to be with her, I wouldn't have come back to Velaris."

Celeste hesitated before tugging at the back of his neck. Amael complied, resting his forehead against her brow again. He gently threaded his fingers through her hair, a silent reassurance that he was not going anywhere unless she asked him to leave. He heard her take a breath, then closed his eyes as she pressed her lips against his own.

It was different from their first kiss, more tentative as Celeste had been the one to initiate it. Amael brushed his thumb across her cheek, enough encouragement that Celeste moved her palm from the center of his chest to his shoulder. She did not need it there to know that his heart was ready to burst through his ribcage.

The bedroom door flew open. "Time to go see—shit. Sorry," Cassian blanched as Amael and Celeste sprang apart, heat creeping into their cheeks. "Tarquin is here, in the office. Rhys wanted me to come get you. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—" the Illyrian rubbed at the back of his neck with a broad hand. "We should go."

"We'll be right behind you," Amael said, shooting his uncle a glare that said, _get out_. Cassian did not hesitate to scramble from the room, his wings cracking loudly against the doorframe as he left. Amael sighed before pressing a quick, lingering kiss to Celeste's lips before standing. He held out his hand. "Ready to see Tarquin?"

She took his hand and let Amael pull her to her feet. "As ready as I'll ever be," Celeste told him, lacing her fingers through her mate's. He gently squeezed her hand. "You'll stay with me, won't you?"

Amael nodded. "I will not leave your side unless you order me away."

Celeste rose onto her toes and kissed Amael's cheek. "I'll never order you away," she promised him. "I wouldn't be a very good mate if I did."

He chuckled, pressing a kiss of his own to her temple. "I'd be lying if I said that I didn't love hearing you say that," Amael smiled at her, leading Celeste to the open bedroom door. "But someone has to tell the High Lord that we both accepted the mating bond."

The Princess scoffed. "I'll tell him," Celeste grumbled. "Because someone also has to tell your father, and I'd rather it be you than me. Azriel is less likely to care you apart with Truth-Teller, mating bond be damned."

Amael snorted, but did not stop smiling. "I'll tell him," he assured her. "I'll tell anyone who asks what you are to me."

Celeste squeezed his hand. "Let's go meet the High Lord," she said, avoiding Cassian's sheepish grin as they ventured out into the hallway. "And hope that he's not afraid of ghosts."


	20. Twenty.

It was only on rare occasions that the High Lord left Velaris, and because of such, he had not seen Tarquin in years. Rhysand rose to his feet as the Lord of Summer was winnowed into his study by Amren, her small hands grasping both Tarquin and Varian's forearms. The moment they stepped through the star-flecked void and passed through the barriers around the river-house, Tarquin twisted himself free from the ancient Fae's embrace. He would never admit that Amren was a woman he feared, that her wicked smile sent a shiver crawling up his spine.

Clearing his throat, Rhysand forced himself to cross his study on legs that did not want to move. His wings were tucked in tightly behind him, flickering with anxious shadows that Feyre soothed with her own darkness. She lifted herself from the couch near his desk, taking the lead in order to give him a moment to collect himself. "Tarquin," she greeted warmly, holding open her arms and embracing the High Lord of the Summer Court. "It's good to see you."

He returned the sentiment with a gentle squeeze around her waist. "I wish it were under better circumstances," Tarquin said, standing back to look at her. His crystalline eyes assessed her in a way that Feyre knew was calculating; her child had died, and Tarquin meant to see how she had faired. "You look well."

Feyre smiled, then stepped aside and let her mate move forward. The High Lord took a breath before extending his hand towards Tarquin. "It's been a long time, old friend," he said, squeezing his forearm when Tarquin took his hand. "I'm sorry to have dragged you here so suddenly, but welcome to my home."

"The pleasure is mine," Tarquin said, letting Rhys go and clasping his hands behind his back. He had not changed in the years since Rhysand had last seen him, though perhaps his white hair had grown longer. His dark blue tunic was embroidered with golden starfish and sea shells, and the pommel of an old sword jutted from beneath a long over-coat. "Amren informed me that there was a favor you wished to ask of me."

Rhysand took another breath, then glanced at the Illyrian perched beneath the gilded threshold. He nodded once, a subtle dip of his chin, and Cassian ducked from the room to retrieve the Princess of the Night Court. If Tarquin noticed the exchange, he did not dare comment on the orders Rhysand gave in his own home.

"There's something I must tell you," Rhys began, nervously fumbling with his hands. Tarquin eyed him suspiciously; gone was the scheming, calculating High Lord that he had come to know since the Mountain. "Twelve years ago, I made a decision that perhaps you cannot forgive me for, but I trust that you'll understand my reasoning. I did it to protect my family."

Tarquin raised an eyebrow. "What decision?"

His hand was shaking as he lifted it. Rhysand motioned towards the door behind Tarquin, and the High Lord spun on his heel, Varian whirling with him and palming the knife at his belt. The cousins blanched at the girl standing beneath the threshold, strange and familiar and… _alive_.

Her arms were wrapped around herself as she met Tarquin's gaze, her amethyst eyes shining bright with apprehension. "Hello, Lord Tarquin," Celeste said quietly, shuffling from foot to foot until her Illyrian companion curled his wing around her shoulders. Amael placed his hand on her hip, a silent warning to the Summer Court that he would kill them if he thought it were necessary. Tarquin could smell the mating bond between them.

Varian's fingers closed around his knife, but Tarquin raised a hand to still him. " _Celeste_?" he clarified, and she slowly nodded her head. The High Lord fumbled for words before turning back to Rhysand, water gathering in his palm. "This isn't possible," he snapped. "I saw her drink that poison. She _died_ that night."

"No," Rhysand told him carefully, eyeing Varian as the Prince of Adriata removed his knife from its sheath. "I planted that memory in your mind—in _everyone's_ minds. No one knows that Celeste is alive apart from my Court here in Velaris. Like you, everyone believes her to be dead. It was the only way I could keep her safe."

Before he could open his mouth, Celeste took a step towards Tarquin, her hands outstretched as though to fend him off. Perhaps he was once her friend, but Celeste would defend her father until the very moment she died. "Please," she said, shadows dancing at her fingertips. "Don't be angry with him. He didn't have a choice," her eyes were wide and pleading now, flickering between both High Lords. "The Tarquin that I remember would give him the chance to explain."

He blinked at her as if doing so would wash away any sorcery—any glamour meant to mislead him. "You were a child the last time I saw you," Tarquin murmured, shuffling towards Celeste despite Amael's snarled warning to stay away from her. "You were as beautiful and as kind as your mother, and as cunning as your father. You were a well-behaved little Lady, and I remember wishing that my own child might someday be something like you," Tarquin swallowed thickly as he held out his hand, a silent offering of peace. "I've missed our lessons in my ballroom."

Celeste reached for him, tentatively taking his hand as she willed away her magic. "Amren still talks about the time we flooded half your palace and nearly killed Varian," she glanced behind Tarquin and offered the Prince an apologetic smile. "If it's any consolation, I've not used my water magic since."

"What a shame," Varian said, crossing his arms over the broad expanse of his chest. "Perhaps by now you'd have learned not to drown your friends," his answering smile told her that his words were half-hearted. "It's good to see you, Princess."

"You as well, Prince Varian," Celeste returned her attention to Tarquin. "My father has much to discuss with you. Perhaps you should sit down," she motioned towards the seat in front of the High Lord's desk. Rhysand had taken his place behind it. "He'll explain everything."

And he did.

Rhysand informed Tarquin of the prophecy meant for Celeste, of the Mortal Queens and their quest to revive the King of Hybern. He told him about Celeste's struggle to control her magic and how he had not let her train in order to ensure she stayed hidden. He described the most recent attack on Velaris, and how Celeste had slaughtered the Mortal Queen's army without so much as leaving their home.

By the time Rhysand was finished, Tarquin was dragging a calloused hand across his face. "By the Mother," the High Lord heaved a sigh as he glanced across the room at Varian. "Are the Mortal Queens preparing for battle?"

"We don't know," Feyre told him. "But we're not asking you to fight if they are. That isn't why we called you here."

Tarquin lifted his head to look at her. "Then why _did_ you call me here?"

"Celeste is no longer safe in Velaris," Rhysand intervened, drawing Tarquin's attention. "The Mortal Queens know she's here, and they can break through my wards regardless of how strongly I reinforce them. There are few people I would trust with my child, Tarquin, and you're one of them," he met Tarquin's gaze and held it. "I called you here to ask if you could look after her."

He turned in his seat to look at Celeste. She was standing near the door with Amael, her fingers threaded through the Illyrian's and squeezing tightly. They were a package deal, and Tarquin knew it; where one went, the other was sure to follow. This, he did not mind. He would gladly take the Princess and her mate back to the Summer Court.

If not for the Queens that were hunting her.

"Rhysand, I…" he spun back around to face the High Lord, his blue eyes flashing with regret. Rhysand held his breath. "I cannot tell you how happy I am to know that Celeste is alive. She was beloved by my mate and my Court," Tarquin bit his lip. "As your friend, Rhys, there's not much that I wouldn't do for you—for your family. But _my_ family…"

Rhysand's heart sank like a stone inside his chest. "Tarquin, _please_ —"

"I'm sorry," he murmured, and Rhysand knew that he meant it. "But allowing Celeste to seek refuge in the Summer Court puts my family at risk. If not for the threat of the Mortal Queens, Rhysand, I would take her to Adriata in a heartbeat. You _know_ that. But it puts my own child in danger, and I will not stand for that."

Before the High Lord could continue his plea, Celeste shook Amael loose and ventured further into the room. "He understands," she said, and both Rhysand and Tarquin turned to her. "I'm sorry that we've asked this of you," Celeste looked at her father and smiled sadly. "I'll stay here. I won't allow him to put Chantara and their daughter at risk. It's not fair that we dragged him here just to ask that he do so."

Tarquin's expression twisted in a way that was akin to torment. Celeste had not changed. "I'm sorry," he said again, more to her than to Rhysand. "I don't mean to turn you away, but Zuri—"

"I understand," Celeste told him, crossing the study to gently squeeze his shoulder. "I'm not asking you to put her at risk, and I'm sorry that we've wasted your time. I'll stay here."

"No," Feyre murmured. Celeste looked up at her in exasperation. If _she_ could understand why Tarquin was refusing to grant her refuge, then surely her parents could understand, too. "It's not safe for you here, Celeste. You cannot stay in Velaris. Not while the Queens are searching for you."

She shook her head. "I am _not_ asking Tarquin to risk his family for me."

Feyre closed her eyes. "Neither am I," she said, and then the High Lady snapped her fingers, removing the glamour that she had placed in the corner of the room.

Amael leapt for Celeste, grabbing her around the waist and throwing the Princess behind him, shielding her body with his wings. Rhysand and Tarquin reached for their swords, and Varian unsheathed his hunting knife. The High Lord of the Spring Court crossed his arms.

"I was invited here," Tamlin said dryly. "Stop acting like I keep crashing your parties."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don't hate Tarquin, he has his own family to think about. And don't hate me for the Tamlin twist. I debated for hours whether or not Celeste would be headed off to the Spring Court or Summer Court, and eventually settled on the Spring Court because...conflict. Lol.
> 
> I'm sorry for the delay. Things have finally settled on my end, and regular updates SHOULD be back to normal...starting next week. I'm a cosplayer and have a convention coming up this weekend, and I have several costume pieces that I need to finish up before Friday. I'll try and update before then, but Friday, Saturday, and Sunday I'll be MIA and away from my laptop entirely.


	21. Twenty-One.

Azriel appeared from the shadows of the High Lord’s study, his broad shoulders tense upon Tamlin’s unveiling. He had meant to remain hidden near the door, but his intentions did not stop him from crossing the room and stepping in front of his son. His wings flared wide, a second barrier between the Lord of Spring and Celeste, a child he would lay down his life for.

 

She cowered behind the Illyrians, her trembling hands gripping the boney frame of Amael’s sparkling wings. She buried her face into his shoulder. Celeste did not want to look at Tamlin, and she could not fathom why her mother had brought him to Velaris. Did Feyre expect her to go with him? The Spring Court was even further away than Adriata, and Tamlin was nothing but a monster. He had delivered them Celeste’s fate twelve years ago, and she had not forgotten the stories that her family had told her. She had not forgotten that Tamlin had locked her mother away, confining her in his manor until she’d begun to whither away.

 

The High Lord’s snarl was feral. “Take Celeste to her room,” Rhysand said, his fingers grasping the pommel of his sword so tightly that his knuckles turned white. He stalked out from behind his desk, his violet eyes darting back and forth between Tamlin and Feyre. Betrayal burned there, and Feyre turned her head away as she drifted into the corner of his study. “ _Now_ , both of you. Take her to her room.”

 

Azriel turned sharply, grasping Amael’s wing and Celeste’s shoulder before winnowing them both from the study. Celeste felt the cold kiss of ice and shadow dance against her skin as they shifted from one room to another, her bedroom appearing within moments of Azriel reaching for her. She staggered from beneath his hand, collapsing onto the edge of her bed where Amael knelt down in front of her.

 

He took her face between the palms of his hands, ignoring the darkness that snapped at his chest and flickered against his own shadows. “Look at me,” Amael said gently, brushing his thumb across Celeste’s cheek. He could feel the panic seeping out of her, could feel it creeping down their mating bond and worming its way into his mind. It was palpable, and she could not breathe. “Celeste, look at me.”

 

“I can’t go to the Spring Court,” Celeste whispered hoarsely, her amethyst eyes meeting Amael’s gaze. They were wide and lined with silver, and her chest was rising too quickly. She would work her way into a melt down if Amael did not stop it. “Tamlin locked my mother away in his manor. He—he has a temper. He hates my father,” she reached for Amael’s hand and squeezed it, her fingers trembling against his palm. “I can’t go. Not to the Spring Court. The last time we saw him—”

 

“Listen to me,” Amael murmured, soothing her darkness with his shadows. They curled over his shoulders and flickered at the apex of his wings. “Tamlin will not lock you away. I won’t let him,” he did not wince as her palms iced over with frost, a small slip of her magic. “I trust that Rhysand will make the right choice in where to send you, but if it’s to the Spring Court, you will not go without me. You will not be alone.” He said it with such conviction that Celeste wanted to believe him.

 

It was to both their surprise that Azriel dropped to one knee, his wings brushing against Amael’s. The Illyrian took Celeste’s other hand, cradling it gently between his scarred fingers. “Feyre, I’m sure, had her reasons for seeking out Tamlin. I trust her, as I trust your father,” his voice was quiet, his features near unreadable if not for the soft reassurance in his hazel eyes. “I’ll go with you to the Spring Court—to _any_ Court—and I will not let anyone hurt you. Neither will Amael. Tamlin will not harm you, temper or grudge be damned.”

 

A tear rolled down her cheek that Amael quickly wiped away for her. “The Spring Court is close to the continent,” Celeste croaked. “I’d be closer to the Mortal Queens if we go there. If they find me…if they find any of _you_ …”

 

Azriel did not hesitate as he reached for the obsidian hilt of Truth-Teller. He pulled the blade free and pressed it into her open palm, then gently closed her fingers around it. Amael sucked in a breath—even _he_ had never been allowed to touch that knife. “This blade will always strike true,” Azriel told her, his lips quirking with the smallest of smiles as Celeste gawked at the weapon. “Keep it with you, and should anyone be stupid enough to threaten you, use it. Truth-Teller has never failed me, and I have no doubt that it will not fail you, either.”

 

“I’ll teach you how to use it,” Amael added, tucking a strand of her midnight hair back behind Celeste’s ear. He smiled as she leaned into his palm, studying the knife between her fingers. “Maybe you’ll fight better with this than with a sword. It’s small, like you.”

 

She huffed at him, then turned her eyes to Azriel. “I’ve never seen you give this knife to anyone, not even Amael.”

 

“I gave it to Elain several years ago,” Azriel informed her. Celeste frowned. “It’s the knife that she and Nesta used to kill the King of Hybern. Neither of them had any training, and as I said, the blade will always strike true,” he stood, surprising them again as he pressed a kiss to Celeste’s forehead. It was brief, and he did not linger. “I’ll get a sheath for you to put it in.”

 

Celeste carefully set the blade on her mattress, then rose onto wobbly legs that nearly sent her stumbling into Amael’s chest. She did not give the Shadowsinger time to prepare himself before she threw her arms around his torso, mindful of his wings as she hugged him. But Azriel did not miss a beat as he held her close to his chest, meeting Amael’s eyes over her shoulder. His son smiled at him, perhaps aware that Azriel supported their mating, and mouthed a silent _thank you_.

 

His father did not acknowledge him, and Azriel squeezed Celeste once before winnowing out of her embrace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a very, very crappy chapter. I apologize. I came home from the convention, and two days later came down sick. I have the sinus infection from Hell and my head feels like it’s about to crack in half. Hopefully it goes away soon and I can focus on writing a good chapter. I’m sorry, guys. Bear with me.


	22. Twenty-Two.

Celeste's bedroom door was quietly pressed open on a star-flecked wind. Shadows skittered across the carpeted floor as Rhysand stalked inside, his violet eyes assessing the scene that lay before him. His child was curled into a ball, her head resting heavily on Amael's thigh as he combed his fingers through her hair, coaxing her into a fitful sleep. Frost was coating Celeste's palms, but her Illyrian mate had done a well enough job keeping her from her magic's thrall.

Her eyes fluttered open as Rhysand shuffled towards her bed, her body growing tense at the defeat that burned his eyes. She could read her father like a book, his torment spread wide across the too-sharp angles of his face. Celeste scrambled to sit up and look at him, half in Amael's lap and half sprawled across her mattress. "What happened?" she asked hoarsely, watching as Rhys sat on the edge of her bed. "Is Tamlin gone?"

Rhysand shook his head, his shoulders slumped as though the High Lord were exhausted—as though whatever had taken place in his study had drained him. "Lucien has been visiting with Tamlin for weeks now," he informed them both, reaching for Celeste's hand when her fingers began to tremble in her lap. He ignored the ice that coated them, smoothing his thumb over her knuckles to try and ease her anxiety. "He never believed you were dead, and he wasn't surprised when Lucien came to him for help. Your mother has been using him as a go-between."

Amael shifted against the headboard, his wings rustling against the ornately carved wrought iron spokes. "What's _that_ supposed to mean?" he questioned. "Feyre arranged for Celeste to go to the Spring Court before we even knew that Tarquin would turn her away."

It was anger that shone in his hazel eyes, and Rhysand could not be sure where it was directed: the High Lord of the Summer Court for refusing to grant Celeste refuge, or his mate for seeking Tamlin's aid. Both, he supposed, were valid reasons for him to be furious.

"Tamlin was meant to be a contingency plan," Rhysand explained, squeezing Celeste's hand as she sank into the Illyrian's chest. "Given our history, the Spring Court is the very last place the Mortal Queens would ever think to look for her. Feyre believed that Tarquin would take Celeste, but there was still enough doubt that she sought out Tamlin just in case. It was Lucien who made the arrangements, but on Feyre's orders."

The whimper that cracked out of her had Amael scrabbling to pull her closer, his arms wrapping around her waist like a vice. Rhysand pretended that the intimacy didn't bother him. "I don't want to go to the Spring Court," Celeste told him, tears gathering against her lashes. "You've told me about Tamlin, about the things he's done. He locked Mom away and you and Aunt Mor had to go and rescue her. What if he tries to lock me away, too?"

"He won't," Rhysand promised her. Celeste saw in his eyes that he meant it. "Because you're not going to the Spring Court alone," he turned to Amael with fiery determination, a High Lord giving orders to his warrior. "Your father and Cassian are going with you, and so are Lucien and Elain. Amren, too, so long as Feyre can persuade her not to kill Tamlin in his sleep."

Celeste frowned, the expression so stark that it drew Rhysand's attention back to her face. "If you're sending almost everyone with me, who will defend Velaris if the Mortal Queens attack again? At least let Amren stay here. She and Aunt Mor can—"

Her father squeezed her hand again, silencing her. "The moment that the Mortal Queens realize you've left Velaris, they won't waste their time here. We'll be fine," Rhys tried to offer her a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "It's only temporary, Celeste. You won't be in the Spring Court for long. Your mother and I will come for you when it's safe."

She wriggled out of Amael's embrace and crawled across the bed to her father. Celeste wrapped her arms around his torso, hugging him with enough strength that the air nearly whooshed out of his lungs. "When will I see you again?" she asked quietly, pressing her face into his shoulder. "How long is 'temporary?'"

Rhysand pressed a kiss to the top of her head, his fingers threading gently through her hair. "I don't know," he admitted, his darkness soothing the shadows that began to flicker at her fingertips. She flexed her hands into fists to smother them. "We'll come for you as soon as the Queens have been dealt with."

 _As soon as the Queens are dead_ —the unspoken promise of where this fight would take them.

"I don't want to leave," Celeste repeated, but there was absolutely no fight left in her—not about this. She would go, and she do so silently. She would not let her people suffer because of her fear. Velaris was in danger so long as Celeste was in the Night Court. "I'll miss you."

The High Lord squeezed her tightly. "I'll miss you, too, my Darling girl," Rhysand smoothed down the back of her hair. "We won't be apart for long, and you'll have Amael to keep you company," he met the Illyrian's gaze. "I don't need to remind you of your orders."

"No, High Lord," Amael lifted his chin. "I'll protect Celeste with my life. You know that."

If either of them noticed her shoulders stiffen with pure, unabashed terror, they did not acknowledge it. Instead, Rhysand said, "I should take you both to the study. Tamlin is waiting," he gently pried Celeste away from him, his hands gripping her face as tears rolled hotly down her cheeks. Rhys wiped them away with calloused fingers. "Tamlin will not harm you. He will not lock you away. His life will be forfeit if he tries."

"I'll bring her to the study," Amael spoke quietly, a silent request for a moment alone with Celeste. Rhys looked up at him and nodded, pressing a kiss to his daughter's brow before lifting himself up off the bed.

He closed the door behind him as he left; Amael did not wait even half a moment before gathering Celeste into his arms again. She buried her face into his shoulder, her hands trembling as she gripped his armor. The fear that thrummed through her veins was palpable; Amael could hear and feel her heart slamming against her ribcage. "It's all right," he murmured, nuzzling his nose into the warmth of her neck, breathing her in and reminding himself of what he had to lose. "I'll kill Tamlin myself if he even so much as looks at you wrong."

Celeste swallowed thickly. Perhaps he was a skilled warrior, but she was not certain if Amael could contend with a High Lord. His power had gone untested, contained within the seven gleaming siphons that adorned his Illyrian fighting leathers. The red stone was cold against Celeste's temple as she leaned into him.

"I want you to train me," she said suddenly. Amael raised an eyebrow. "You, and Cassian, and Azriel. I want _all_ of you to train me," Celeste sat up enough to look at him. "If the Mortal Queens attack Velaris again, or if they attack anyone else that I love, I want to be able to defend them."

 _To defend you,_ she did not say, but Amael read it on her face.

He stared at her for a long moment, his dark eyes wary and assessing. "All right," Amael agreed, lifting his hand and pressing it gently to her cheek. "But if Cassian and my father help me train you, they won't take it as easy on you as I have. They will not care if they leave you bruised and bleeding."

The Princess sucked in a breath. "Good," she said, bending out of his grasp and reaching for the knife on her nightstand. Truth-Teller sparkled beneath the faelights, its obsidian hilt curving perfectly into the palm of her hand. She did not understand why Azriel had given it to her, but she would not let the gift go to waste. She would learn how to wield it like the Shadowsinger. "I want to know how to use this."

Amael nodded, closing his fingers around Celeste's hand and forcing her to grasp the knife tighter. "I'll show you," he promised, reaching for the sheath that Azriel had brought for Celeste. He'd winnowed into the room and dumped it on the edge of the bed, then had disappeared into the shadows without a word. "Stand up. Let me show you how to put this on."

Celeste did as she was told, pressing Truth-Teller into Amael's palm before rising onto unsteady feet. Her mate moved to the edge of the bed, slipping the knife into the leather sheath before sliding the band around her thigh. "Make sure you can always reach it," Amael told her, fumbling with the silver buckle as he tightened the belt over the dark material of her pants. "Don't waste your time having to bend and reach for it, and don't give yourself a reason to take your eyes off an enemy."

"Why can't I put it here?" Celeste asked, drumming her fingers against her hip.

"Because right there, it's in the way," Amael tapped her leg to let her know he was finished. Celeste stepped back, moving her leg to test her mobility with the added sheath around her thigh. "You'll knock it loose if you leave it clipped to your belt, and it'll get in the way when you're trying to swing a sword. Right here, it's out of the way but still within your reach."

She curled her fingers around Truth-Teller, pulling it free to see how quickly she could do so. "If I wanted to kill someone with this, where's the best place to stick it?"

Amael snorted at her choice in phrasing. "Here," he said, poking her in the chest with his index finger, directly above her heart. "Or here," he gently pushed against her stomach. "Or here," the Illyrian stood and lightly touched his fingers to her throat, to the pulse that thrummed beneath her skin. Celeste tried not to shudder. "They're quick kills if you know what you're doing, but they're messy," Amael lifted his hand and brushed back her hair, tucking it back behind her ear. "Why the interest in killing someone when you have me to do it for you?"

"Because the Mortal Queens are running me out of my home," Celeste told him quietly, leaning into his palm as he placed it against her cheek. "They're threatening Velaris, and my family, and you, and I want to know how to kill them for it. If my magic fails, then I'll kill them all by blade."

"The Mortal Queens are dangerous," Amael reminded her, failing to mention what the Queens might have in their arsenal. "But I'll hold them still and let you make the killing blow. That alone is owed to you, should you want it."

Celeste slid Truth-Teller back into the sheath. "I do want it," she said. "If only because their cronies nearly killed you."

He pressed a kiss to her forehead, his hands falling to rest against her hips. "I appreciate the sentiment," Amael mused. "But it's not your job to protect me, and you already slaughtered all those Attor. I think you've done enough in retribution. Leave the Queens and their armies to me."

Celeste prodded at the blood red siphon that sat in the center of his chest. It flickered with a tendril of his power. "Maybe you could slaughter entire armies too," she said. "Maybe that's why the Cauldron put us together. Like calls to like, and mates are meant to be equal."

"Perhaps," Amael replied, placing his hand over Celeste's as she flattened her palm against his chest. "But I'm thankful enough not to question its choices. I'm glad that the Cauldron gave me you."


	23. Twenty-Three.

****Darkness ebbed in the corners of the room, spiraling against the walls and washing over the curtained windows. It roused Amael from his sleep, shadows flickering against the tips of his wings and begging the Illyrian to wake—to tend to the mate that was writhing in his arms. Amael’s hazel eyes fluttered open to the cold press of iced-over hands against his chest, his tattooed skin covered in a thin layer of frost.

Celeste twisted and curled into his embrace, her pallid face buried into the crook of his sweat-slicked neck. The Spring Court was hotter than the Night, and Amael had shucked off his shirt hours ago to combat the stifling heat. But the icy palms pressing into his chest had cooled him, a chill settling deep into his bones that he had not thought Celeste capable of.

He gently pried her away from him. “Celeste,” Amael whispered, smoothing back her hair and drumming his fingers against her cheek. She whimpered, her breath cold against his skin. “Celeste, wake up. You’re dreaming,” he placed a kiss to her forehead, ignoring the salty taste of the sweat that was gathering at her brow. “You’re safe.”

Another whimper escaped her, sparkling frost spreading from the tips of her fingers. “Amael,” she said hoarsely, squeezing her eyes shut tighter. She absently curled in closer to him, to the warmth of his body as hers shivered from the magic in her veins. “Where are you? I—I can’t find you.” 

“I’m here,” Amael said, tracing his thumb against the curve of her cheekbone. “Open your eyes. Don’t let the magic control you,” he banished the shadows that swirled near the edges of their bed, scattering them with half a thought in their direction. “Come back to me.”

The Princess of the Night Court thrashed in his arms as she struggled to break free from the darkness, her magic having sank its talons deep into her mind while she slept. Celeste had never spent the night away from home before—not since her family’s last trip to the Summer Court all those years ago—and the distance had worked her into a frenzy she could hardly control.

The moment they had arrived at Tamlin’s manor, she had begged Lucien to show her to where she would be sleeping. Amael had silently followed them, and no one had argued when the Shadowsinger dropped his belongings in the corner of the bedroom and proclaimed that they would be sharing it. The others had quickly left them alone, and Celeste had spent the better part of the afternoon pacing along the windows and trying to fend off her magic.

Amael tipped back her head before gently pressing a kiss to her mouth. “Wake up,” he said, his tone soft but unyielding. “Before you turn us both into a glacier. Even the Steppes aren’t as cold as your fingers.”

It was the humor in his words that hauled her back from the edge, and the fear that perhaps Celeste was hurting him. Her eyes fluttered, then opened entirely to find Amael smiling faintly. A rasping breath escaped from her, and she tore her hands away from his chest and willed the ice out of her veins. “I’m sorry,” she said hoarsely, pleading for the magic to settle back into her bones. “I didn’t—”

“It’s all right,” Amael told her, brushing her hair back from in front of her face. The frost cleared from his skin, revealing the swirling tattoos that lie beneath; Illyrian marks for honor and glory on the battlefield. Celeste’s eyes were drawn to them. “Can you send away the shadows, or should I? I don’t mind.”

She took a breath in through her nose. “I can do it,” Celeste said, silencing the darkness inside of her. She locked it beneath the iron chain that Amren had helped her build in her mind, stowing it away until she deemed she were ever in need of it. Shadows flitted from the bedroom, furling into the walls and slipping through the cracks in the window. She breathed again. “There.”

“Good,” Amael praised quietly, pulling her close. “Do you need anything?”

Celeste shook her head. “No,” she murmured, scanning the intricate whirls of his tattoo. It flowed over his chest and shoulder, then curled around the back of neck and down between the center of his wings. “I knew you had them, but you never showed me your tattoos,” she absently traced over the lines with her finger, icy still against the warmth radiating from his skin. Amael did not move. “Cassian did these for you after you passed your Blood Rite, right?”

He hummed an acknowledgement. “Half the other novices that were sent into the mountains tried to kill me. It was a riveting two weeks,” Amael saw the subdued fear that flashed through Celeste’s pale eyes. He pressed his palm to her cheek. “I passed,” he reminded her. “I could fight with the Illyrian legions now, if I wanted to.”

“In another world,” Celeste mused quietly. “Do you think that I could have trained with you in the Steppes? That we could have gone into those mountains together and taken the Blood Rite?” 

The Shadowsinger mauled over her words, choosing his own carefully. “Perhaps,” Amael said. “But I can’t imagine you in the Steppes; I don’t want to. I also can’t imagine you taking the Blood Rite,” he tugged at her chin when Celeste turned away from him, wounded as though he had slighted her. “Had you been in those mountains with me, and had anyone dared to come near you, I’d have slaughtered every single one of them.”

She did not balk from him, from his willingness to shed blood for her. “Well, what about you?” Celeste said. “What if I had slaughtered everyone who so much as looked at you wrong?”

Amael snorted. “You’d be better off burning the entire camp to the ground, then,” he told her. “I’m the bastard son of the High Lord’s bastard spymaster. The Illyrians hate me almost as much as they do my father. And Cassian and Rhys, for that matter. Maybe you _should_ burn down their camp. I could help you,” he smiled at the breathy laugh that escaped from her. “We could light some torches, go door to door.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Celeste chided, then gently poked him in the chest. “I’m sure I have fire magic in me somewhere. We have no need for torches.”

He laughed, and it was a deep, rumbling sound that was like music to Celeste’s pointed ears. Amael did not laugh enough, did not smile enough, and she wondered if she were to blame. Amael sobered. “What’s wrong?” he asked, cupping her face between the palms of his hands. She frowned at him. “The mating bond, I—you’re sad. I can feel it.”

Celeste blinked at him. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t realize.”

“What’s wrong?” Amael repeated, stroking his thumb against her cheek. “Apart from being here in the Spring Court. 

She hesitated for just a moment, worrying at her bottom lip and catching it between her teeth. “I love your laugh,” Celeste blurted, a blush coloring her face. “And you don’t do it enough. You don’t smile enough, either. It’s like _you’re_ always sad,” she looked away from him. “And I wonder whether or not it’s my fault.”

“No,” Amael said fiercely, but not without restraint. “Don’t think like that. I’m not—I’m not _sad_ , Celeste. I worry. It’s different.” 

“But you worry because of me,” she reminded him, tracing her fingers over the intricate designs of his tattoo again. “You shouldn’t have to, and you don’t deserve it. You don’t deserve any of this.”

Amael swallowed, his wings rustling in the darkness behind him. Words began to rise to the tip of his tongue that he could not stop himself from speaking. “I worry, Celeste, because I love you,” his chest tightened at the widening of his mate’s eyes, at the unreadable emotion that flickered there. “Please don’t feel obligated to—”

“Do you mean that?” Celeste asked, and it was doubt that tumbled down their mating bond. She did not deserve Amael, to be loved by him, and the Illyrian could see it on her face. He could see it in the way she would not look at him, in the way her fingers trembled against his chest and began to grow cold with more ice.

He took her hand and squeezed it. “I do,” Amael murmured, resisting the urge to pull her close and wrap her up in his arms. “With or without the mating bond.”

Celeste hesitated, then wriggled out of Amael’s embrace. He held his breath and watched as she scrambled off the bed; as she stalked to the corner of the room and to the bags that they had yet to unpack. Celeste rifled through her belongings, grumbling as she dug to the bottom of the pack that was full of her art supplies.

“What are you doing?”

She did not answer him, continuing her search. Celeste retrieved a small leather bag that had sifted beneath her paints and brushes, and clutched it tightly between her hands. It was silly, and perhaps Amael would not be impressed, but it was the best she had been able to do on such short notice.

“You might know more about the mating bond than I do,” Celeste said, stumbling through the darkness of the room and perching herself on the edge of the bed beside Amael. “It’s supposed to be declared by a priestess and made official, but we weren’t given the luxury of time,” she bit her lip and handed the bag to him. “It’s not much, but I can’t cook and I don’t want to raid Tamlin’s kitchen.”

Amael untied the bag and chuckled, dumping the array of small pastries and candy into the palm of his hand. “I would never have asked you to cook for me,” he told her, taking a strawberry tart and breaking it in half, handing her the bigger piece. “But I know that among the High Fae, they make a big deal over the female offering the male food.”

“It’s the best I could do,” Celeste murmured, her cheeks pink with embarrassment. Amael deserved better than this. “Nuala and Cerridwen caught me stealing from the kitchen. They probably reported it to your father.”

He shrugged his shoulders, muscles rippling and rolling beneath his tan skin. “You stole all my favorites, so I’m not complaining,” Amael bit off the corner of his tart, strawberries gushing through the pastry dough. “Until we get home, this is official enough for me. Thank you.”

Celeste looked up at him, gnawing on a piece of partially melted chocolate that she had plucked from Amael’s palm. “I’m sorry I couldn’t offer you more, but I _do_ accept the mating bond, in case that wasn’t obvious,” she finished off the candy before twisting to face Amael, her eyes once again filled with doubt. “I’m sorry you’re stuck with me as a mate.”

“I’m not stuck with you,” Amael chided gently, his heart fracturing at the fear that still lingered between the bond, the feeling that she still was not enough for him. “I told you—I love you, with or without the mating bond. I didn’t need it to feel this way. I’d have rejected the bond if it were with anyone else.”

She huffed, but appreciated the sentiment. “Males can’t reject the mating bond,” Celeste reminded him. “It’s too primal and deeply rooted in who they are.”

“I’d like to think I’m different from the average Fae male,” Amael told her, carefully pouring their stolen goods back into the bag when he was certain that Celeste was finished snacking. He set it on the stand next to the bed, then reached for Celeste’s hand and squeezed it gently. “It’s late,” he said. “We should probably get some more sleep. Now that Cassian knows you want him to help train you, I have no doubt he’ll tear down that door and drag us out of bed in the morning.”

Celeste cringed. “You’re right.”

She crawled over Amael, settling back down into the pillows and blankets on the side of the bed that she had claimed. Amael laid down beside her, his wing lifting up and over Celeste to draw her closer against him. She curled into his chest, pressing her face into the space between his neck and shoulder. Warmth radiated off his body, and Celeste didn’t bother to sink all the way down into the duvets.

They settled after several moments of adjusting themselves to get comfortable, Amael’s arms sliding under and around his mate. He closed his eyes when Celeste fell still in his embrace, the palm of her hand pressed to the center of his chest. It would stay there for the rest of the night.

“Amael?” Celeste whispered, her breath warm against his skin.

“Hmm?” he nuzzled his nose into her hair. “What is it?”

She pressed an experimental kiss to his shoulder, just above his tattoo. “I love you, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s a fluffy chapter. I promise it’ll pick back up in the next update, but I needed something to ease my sorry ass back into writing, and this was it. Hopefully the “I love you” makes up for it. Lol.


	24. Twenty-Four.

In all his years, Tamlin had never seen anything like it.

The Illyrians were fierce, and they spared the Princess no mercy. The arrogant one, Cassian, had beaten her into the dirt more times than Tamlin had cared to count, and still she rose to her feet. Celeste was awful with a sword, and she did not throw a good punch, but she was learning to become lethal with her knife.

Truth-Teller, Tamlin had learned. The Shadowsinger that lurked near the edges of the training ring had given it to her. He’d heard stories about that knife, about what Azriel had done with it to extract information from his enemies. If Tamlin were a lesser male, he would have cringed upon seeing the blade in the young girl’s hand that morning.

He watched as Cassian swept her feet out from under her; as she crashed to the ground and the knife skittered out of reach. Celeste’s groan was audible from where Tamlin was perched on the back patio of his manor, his arms crossed over his chest. He was propped against a slate stone pillar, his magic sending a gentle breeze into the training ring. Sweat was coating her brow, and Tamlin couldn’t fathom why Celeste was wearing Illyrian fighting leathers.

Celeste rose to her feet and gathered her knife from the dirt.

Tamlin had to give it to her. Perhaps she was not strong, but she was determined. She crouched low and gripped the dagger in her hand, her chest heaving as she collected her breath. Cassian barked that her stance was wrong, and Celeste shifted her feet further apart before angling herself towards him. She squared her shoulders, and Azriel suggested that she unclench her empty hand. She could not swing with it, anyway.

That small moment of correction was the only reprieve that Cassian gave her. He flew at her, trapping her within the circle of his wings and landing a blow to her gut. Celeste grunted, but she did not double over, and instead brought up her knife and rammed the handle between his ribs. Cassian grinned his approval before pummeling her back into the dirt.

“He’s an arrogant bastard.”

Tamlin’s shoulders stiffened at the other male’s approach. He had not forgotten that betrayal. He likely never would. His emissary had stabbed him in the back, and Tamlin could not look at him without wanting to slit Lucien’s throat. Their time apart had not lessened the blow, and their frequent meetings over the past few weeks had only served as a reminder. 

“But he means well. He’s certainly thorough with her training,” Lucien raked his fingers through the vibrant red locks of his hair. A smile pulled at his mouth. “I can’t wait until Celeste manages to knock him on his ass. It’ll serve him right for being so goddamned hard on her.”

The High Lord gritted his teeth. “If she wanted him to take it easy,” Tamlin began. “Then she shouldn’t have asked him to train her. Illyrian brutes are known for their savagery.”

Lucien’s metal eye whirred. “They’re not bad people, Tam. Cassian is loud-mouthed and arrogant, but he’s loyal. And Azriel? He’s the nicest one of the bunch.” Lucien sighed. “It’s been more than twenty years, Tamlin. You can’t hold a grudge against Rhys and the Night Court forever.”

“ _Rhys_ ,” Tamlin spat. The name was poison on his tongue. “I didn’t realize that you were such good friends. I thought Feyre was who turned you against me, but perhaps Rhysand warped your mind and made you forget about the terrible things that he’s done.”

His eyes fluttered. “You and I are not innocent, Tamlin,” Lucien’s fingers inched towards the heavy sword at his side. Illyrian steel, Tamlin noted. He even used their weapons. “We’ve all done things not worth mentioning. We all have something to atone for.”

Tamlin snorted. “You sound like Feyre.”

“I’ve had twenty years to spend with her,” Lucien snapped at him. “Because you banished me from my home. I apologize if the Lady has rubbed off on me, even if she’s usually right,” Lucien shook his head and flexed his hands into fists. “You _are_ a pig-headed bastard.”

“So is Rhysand, but here you are groveling in his favor.”

An icy wind blasted against the center Tamlin’s chest.

The High Lord was thrown across the patio, and the sliding doors that led into the manor were not enough to break his fall. They shattered as he crashed into the glass. Tamlin staggered to regain his balance, but the broken shards beneath his feet sent him tumbling to the ground inside the foyer.

He looked at Lucien, his former emissary gapping at him before he whirled to face the courtyard. The fighting there had stopped, and the Princess of the Night Court was shaking. Wind crackled in her veins, and the grass beneath her was frozen solid with ice. “Do not,” Celeste breathed. “Insult my father.”

Tamlin blinked at her. He did not feel the shards of glass that were cutting into his palms. “You have my powers,” he murmured. “My wind.”

“I have my mother’s wind,” Celeste snapped at him. She gripped Truth-Teller as though she wanted to plunge the blade into Tamlin’s heart. “Insult my father again, and I’ll show you what else is in my arsenal. He’s a better male than you.”

The absolute fury that marred Tamlin’s face had Lucien backing down the staircase. He curled his fingers around the silver pommel of his sword; not to defend him, Tamlin realized, but the child still glaring at him from the courtyard. He doubted that she needed his protection, not with the three Illyrian brutes who had flocked to her side and were guarding her with their wings spread wide. Her mate had taken her hand, and his shadows were curling around their shoulders.

He did not care. He would shred their wings and not think twice about it.

Tamlin rose to his feet. “Did you know,” he began. “That it’s a crime to attack a High Lord?”

Celeste met his gaze and did not flinch at the fire that burned in his eyes. “It’s also a crime to threaten one’s child,” she reminded him. She grasped the dagger in her hand until her knuckles turned white. “And you’re not my High Lord.”

“I am while you’re in my land,” Tamlin retorted. He dared her to throw that knife at him. To attack him again with her magic. “I gave you asylum here. I can take that away.”

“Then do it,” Celeste said. “I’m sure my mother would appreciate it.”

“Celeste,” Amael murmured. He squeezed her fingers. “Stop goading him.”

Tamlin crossed his arms. “Perhaps you should listen to your mate,” he said. “He seems to have more sense.”

The snarl that ripped through the courtyard was animalistic in nature. Amael barred his teeth. “You’ve already insulted my High Lord,” he said. His words and tone were lethal. “Do not insult my mate. You’ll find that I’m less forgiving where Celeste is concerned.”

“Perhaps we should call it a day,” Lucien suggested. He angled himself between the Illyrians and Tamlin, ever the mediator. His russet eye was wary, and his metal one clicked and whirred as he offered Tamlin a tentative smile. “I spoke with Bron and Hart this morning. They invited me along for a hunting trip. You should join us.”

He gritted his teeth. Lucien was trying to lure him away. To remove him from the equation before Tamlin lost his temper entirely. Perhaps he was a High Lord, but one wrong word and these people would rip him apart. Or try to. Tamlin did not know how he would fare against three Illyrian warriors. Or Celeste, for that matter, who’s magic he could feel threatening to tear loose from inside of her.

“Fine,” Tamlin said tersely. He would save this fight for another day. “Send for me when you’re ready to leave.”

Tamlin turned sharply on his heel and stalked back into the manor, shards of broken glass crunching beneath the soles of his boots. He ought to make that brat pay for the damage, but billing Rhysand for the shattered doors would bring him far more pleasure. Let him deal with his offspring and discover that she was not perfect.

As he rounded the corner and stormed away from the foyer, Tamlin heard the congratulatory, “I can’t believe you threw him on his ass,” as Cassian clapped Celeste on the shoulder. His strength nearly toppled her over, and Tamlin also heard her grumbled curse as she shoved the Illyrian away from her.

Cassian’s booming laugh chased Tamlin through the manor, and the slamming of his study door did not drown it out.

 


	25. Twenty-Five.

In all the years that he had known her, Amael had never known Celeste to have a temper. He had never seen her so angry—so aggressive. Her father did not need her to defend him, but Celeste had whirled on Tamlin and blasted him with her magic before Amael or their family could stop her. He had blinked, and in that brief moment when Amael's eyes had been closed, Tamlin had been launched across the patio. When he'd opened them, the High Lord had crashed through the back doors of his manor.

That had not been the end of her rage.

Cassian had called an end to their training when Celeste had burned through three sets of sparring pads; when she had burned her gloves to soot and was pummeling her Uncle's open palms. Lucien had offered to help her control the flames, had reached towards her to do so, but Celeste had only snapped at him to mind his business. He'd gaped at her, and Cassian had barked for Celeste to watch her mouth.

A withering glare had been her only response before she'd turned and sulked from the courtyard. Cassian and Azriel had not stopped her, but Amael had taken a deep breath and followed his mate into the garden. His body had disappeared into the shadows; he was nothing more than Celeste's own silhouette as she stormed through the thorns and budding roses. Frost flickered at her fingertips as she lost herself inside the maze of shrubs.

Anger tumbled down the mating bond. Anger and regret and something akin to fear. She was angry that Tamlin had insulted her father—that he had spoken of Rhysand with such disdain that even Amael had wanted to throttle him for it. Celeste regretted having snapped at Lucien, and she regretted having potentially hurt Cassian. She was afraid… Amael did not know what she was afraid of. She had not told him that there were things beyond the obvious that frightened her.

"I know you're there," Celeste said. "I can feel you."

Amael withdrew from the shadows, though they flickered at the tips of his wings. "I'm sorry," he said. "I was trying to give you space, but you can't go storming off on your own—not here. This isn't home."

Celeste whirled around to face him, moving so quickly that her own weight nearly toppled her over. "I know that," she spat at him. Amael winced. "It's the Spring Court. It's the Mother's-damned Spring Court, and I want to go _home_."

The Shadowsinger held out his hands, a silent offering for Celeste to come to him. "I know," Amael murmured. He wriggled his fingers. "So do I."

She shoved aside his hands and sank into Amael's chest. "I hate this place," Celeste buried her face into his shoulder. "I hate Tamlin, I hate this court, and I hate the Mortal Queens," she gripped Amael's fighting leathers, her hold so tight that her fingers hurt. "I want to go home, Amael. I miss my parents. I miss Mor. I even miss Aunt Nesta."

Amael chuckled as he pressed a kiss to her temple. His shadows wreathed them in darkness, the kind that brought Celeste comfort because those shadows were wholly her mate. They were soft and caressing and gentle, an ice-kissed wind that danced and flitted across her skin.

"I'm sure they miss you, too," Amael murmured. "But Velaris isn't safe right now—not for you."

He chose not to hear the string of curse words that tumbled from Celeste's mouth.

"Rhysand said that he and Feyre would come for you as soon as the Queen's had been dealt with. They won't look for you here," Amael's eyes fluttered. "If they were to ever get their hands on you, Celeste…"

" _I know_ ," Celeste groaned. Amael felt the frustration that sparked through the bond between them. "They would kill me. They would use my magic to create their key to the Otherworld, and then they'd kill me. Or the key would. I don't know. But I don't care," Celeste twisted out of Amael's embrace and began to pace along the hedges. "I feel like a coward. My mother didn't hide from Hybern when he was looking for her. Neither did Nesta and Elain."

Amael watched her carefully. "This is different," he said. "You're their child, and they love you."

When she did not deign to acknowledge him, Amael reached for her, his fingers curling around Celeste's wrist. He pulled her against him, and before she could shove him away, he took her face between his palms. " _I_ love you," he whispered. Amael brushed his thumb across her cheek, her skin bruised from her training. "And as much as I want us to go home, I'd rather we stay here until it's safe. You being grumpy and snapping at poor Lucien is worth it."

Celeste poked him in the chest. "I'm not grumpy," she said. "I'm miserable."

He snorted. "Yes, I can feel that," Amael quirked his head. "But you're afraid, too. Why?"

Celeste diverted her attention to the ground. She absently traced her fingers over his chest, the scaled armor of his fighting leathers cool against her skin. "I'm afraid," she began. "Because I don't know what's happening in Velaris. What if the Mortal Queens attack again? You saw what I did to their army. What if I'm needed, and I'm not there?"

"Velaris has been attacked before," Amael reminded her. "Rhysand and Feyre can protect the city on their own, but if they're needed, they'll send for my father and Uncle Cassian," Amael pressed his forehead to her brow. "I never want to see you like that again."

"Like what?"

"Like you were on Starfall," Amael felt her fingers give pause against his chest. "I could barely reach you. You looked at me while you were lost in your magic, and it's like you were staring right through me. It's like you weren't… _you_."

She took a breath. Amael had never told her how afraid he had been that night. He had never told her that he'd been certain that he'd finally lost her—that she was trapped in her magic's thrall and could not come back from it. Pulling her back from that edge, searching for that tether between them and yanking so hard that she'd felt the mating bond snap into place…it'd been a miracle that Celeste had returned to him with her sanity intact.

The Princess wrapped her arms around his middle. "What if that's the only way to defeat them?" Celeste asked. Amael stiffened. "Sinking that far into my power, I mean. You saw what I did to their army, Amael, and I'm the only one who can forge their key. What if—"

"No," Amael's voice was not its usual timbre. It did not possess even a fraction of his gentle regard for his mate. "If that's the cost to kill the Mortal Queens, then someone else will pay it."

Celeste tipped her head and blinked at him. "And if I'm the only one who can?"

A muscle ticked in his jaw. "Then I will tear apart this Earth until I find someone else who is able. You won't be the cost of winning the war that's to come. I won't allow it," Amael met her gaze, and the fire that burned in his eyes… Celeste did not balk from it as he dropped his voice and repeated, "I won't allow it."

She stared at him, his eyes the color of molten Earth. "You'd let Prythian fall to ruin?"

"I'd let the whole damn world fall to ruin," Amael meant every word; Celeste felt his sincerity through their mating bond. "You will not be the cost to save us."

"You're such a stubborn, overgrown bat," Celeste said. "And such a male."

Amael let the tension drain from his shoulders. "And you're an overgrown bat with terrible self-preservation. You _can_ summon wings, you know," Amael slid his hands behind her. He traced his fingers down the length of Celeste's spine and did not acknowledge that she shuddered. "I haven't seen them in years, but you have them. You're Illyrian."

"I don't remember how to summon them," Celeste's eyes darted to the wings that loomed over Amael's shoulders. "I wasn't allowed to learn how to fly."

"With good reason," Amael tucked in his wings. The membrane sparkled in the sunlight. "Rhys was afraid that if anyone saw you and realized you were alive, they'd shoot you out the sky."

Celeste scoffed. "I didn't learn to winnow, either."

"Semantics."

Her mouth twitched with a smile. "Someday," Celeste began. "When all of this is over and our lives are horribly mundane, do you think you could teach me how to fly?"

"Of course," Amael brushed her hair back, his fingers sliding through the black strands as he tucked it behind her ear. "Though I don't think I'll mind mundane. As soon as the Queens are dead, I'm looking forward to a simple, peaceful existence."

She tilted her head. "Will we stay in the manor?" Celeste asked. "Or find a place of our own? If it's peace you want, you'll never have it so long as our family is near."

Amael snorted. "That's true," he placed his palm against her cheek. "You're comfortable in the manor, though. It's your home. I would never ask you to leave."

Celeste bit her lip. "It's not," she said. "Not exactly."

Amael raised an eyebrow.

She flattened her hand against the center of Amael's chest. She felt his heart beating against her palm. "My home is wherever you are. Whether that be the manor, in the Steppes, or somewhere quaint along the Sidra. _You_ are my home—it's not a place, not really."

"So if I asked you to move to the Spring Court—"

She slapped her hand against his armor. "Don't ruin it."

Amael chuckled, and his breath was warm against her cheek. "I appreciate the sentiment," he promised. "I would never take you away from the Night Court. As much as I may be your home, so is Velaris. I'm content to find a quiet place there."

"The townhouse is empty," Celeste mused. "Perhaps my father will give it to us as a mating gift."

"Perhaps," Amael pressed a kiss to her brow, his lips lingering a moment longer than necessary. "We should head back. Someone owes Lucien and apology."

Regret tumbled down the mating bond again. "I shouldn't have snapped at him."

"No," Amael agreed. "But Lucien, I'm sure, understands."

Celeste leaned into his chest and tucked her head beneath his chin. "I'm not apologizing to Tamlin," she grumbled. "It's a shame that the glass didn't slit his throat."

Amael tapped the knife sheathed at her hip. "I don't think you need the glass to kill him."

She wrapped her arms around his middle. Celeste closed her eyes and listened to the sound of his heart. Amael combed his fingers through her hair. "Can we stay here?" she asked. "Just for a few more minutes? I don't want to go back yet."

The Illyrian planted his feet, prepared to stand there for however long she needed. "Of course."

Celeste smiled. "Tell me more about that quiet life we'll have," she murmured. "Give me something to hope for."

And so he did.


	26. Twenty-Six.

In the weeks that followed their arrival, the Illyrians and Celeste fell into a routine that, for the miserable Princess of the Night Court, kept her mind off home. She did not have the time to worry about Velaris and whether or not it was still standing.

She trained with Cassian every morning, both in hand-to-hand combat and with a sword that she did not like. The shield that her uncle had given to her was half her size, and she could not figure out how to use it. She would never fight with an Illyrian legion, neither on the ground nor in the sky, but she couldn't say that she cared. Neither did Cassian, who thanked the Cauldron she'd be one less person for him to worry about.

When they were finished, Celeste trained with Azriel. He had taught her to use Truth-Teller with lethal efficiency, and when Celeste had mastered the ancient blade to his standards, the Shadowsinger had begun teaching her how to fight with other weapons. She favored his bow, and Lucien had spent a great deal of time scouring the Spring Court for an enchanted quiver that magically refilled when Celeste had run out of arrows.

Neither Lucien nor Azriel bothered to mention that a bow was Feyre's choice of weapon, though they both itched to take the girl hunting.

She worked with Amren in the afternoon, and it was perhaps what Celeste dreaded most about her sunny days in Spring. They had strengthened the internal damper on her magic, but Amren did not care if Celeste cried and screamed and clawed at her head as the ancient savior worked her way inside her mind. Her mental shields were not strong enough, and Amren wouldn't be satisfied with Celeste's progress until she could shove Amren out and stop her from getting back in.

Every night before dinner, Celeste trained with Amael. They sparred together in the courtyard, and Amael had stopped taking it easy on her. Celeste had asked him not to. He didn't pummel her into the dirt as Cassian did, but he was no longer afraid to knock her down in fear of hurting his mate. His cobalt siphons would flare every time she rallied just a fraction of her power; an answer to her magic's whispering call.

Amael had not learned how to dodge her blows as she sent him sprawling through the air, either with a warm gust of wind or a wave of star-flecked darkness. It was decent training for them both, though Azriel watched them closely from the sidelines.

By the time Celeste crawled into bed at night, she was too exhausted to ponder what was happening back home. If she did not fall asleep at the dinner table, she listened to Azriel's detailed reports to Cassian. This did not happen often. Amael was whisking her away to bed long before the others were finished with their food, and Celeste was always fast asleep before the Illyrian could settle down beside her.

Today, she was given a reprieve, though she was not sure she wanted it.

Azriel was needed in Velaris, and Cassian had spent the better part of a week complaining that Celeste was a piss-poor opponent. He had meant for Azriel to spar with him, but as the Shadowsinger had other business to attend to, Amael had jumped into the ring with him. Alone on the sidelines of the makeshift fighting pitch,Celeste had stood there watching them until Elain had pulled her away, insisting on a walk through the garden.

"Velaris is beautiful," she mused, her arm looked through Celeste's elbow. "But Tamlin's gardens are lovely. Do you think that your father would let me plant something similar back home? We'd need to find the room, of course, for something as elaborate as this, but I think it's worth it. The world could use more gardens."

Celeste shrugged her shoulders. She plucked a rose from a low-lying shrub and passed it to her aunt with a smile. "Maybe," her smiled widened as Elain tucked the stem behind her ear. "But this place is a maze. Can you imagine how quickly Cassian would trample it to the ground if he couldn't find his way out?"

Her laughter was as bright and beautiful as sunshine. A rose in her own way, indeed. Celeste envied her. "Give him credit," Elain chided. "He leads your father's armies. And he can probably see over the hedges, the big brute."

The Princess snorted. "That doesn't mean he wouldn't trample them."

Elain slapped her arm playfully as they turned into the center of the garden.

A stone fountain sat in the middle of a small plaza. A vine of granite roses twisted high above the pool, their petals spouting crystal-clear water. The wrought-iron bench sitting near the fountain was surrounded by a patch of billowing moonflowers, the dark metal bent into shape to match the sway of their stems.

Celeste breathed in deep and closed her eyes. The moonflowers reminded her of Amael, a lingering scent that clung to her mate beneath his shadows. She debating plucking one of the lush flowers so she could give it to him, but the sparkling white petals were fragile. They were likely to tear should she touch them.

She would bring him here, she decided, assuming she could find her way back. She had never ventured this far into the garden, and Lucien had told her that the maze changed every night. The paths that she and Elain had taken to get here would not be the same tomorrow, but that was the way Tamlin liked it.

As Elain sat herself on the metal bench before the fountain, Celeste dipped her hands into the water. Small fish nipped at the tips of her fingers. She smiled. "Do you think—"

She did not see it coming.

Talons of Illyrian steel slammed into Celeste's mental shields. They shattered. She screamed as she dropped to her knees, her head pressed between the palms of her hands as darkness swept in to claim her. Elain scrambled to her side, but an icy wind blasted her away until her head cracked against the fountain. She slumped to the polished cobblestones and did not move.

"Aunt Elain—"

Strong hands gripped the collar of Celeste's fighting leathers. "Get up," a voice snarled at her. The command sank into her bones as surely as if she'd given it herself. Her legs moved. Celeste rose to her feet, the talons dug deep into her mind pulling at her like the strings of a doll. "Stand still, and do not fight me. I'll make this quick."

She could not move. Her body no longer belonged to her, and her thoughts were not her own. Celeste lifted her eyes from the ground and met the dark gaze of a female she did not recognize. She was beautiful. Clawed wings arched over her broad shoulders, the black and silver membrane sparkling in the sunlight. Illyrian, Celeste realized. She was Illyrian.

The female quirked her head as Celeste stared at her. "I thought you'd be prettier."

It took every ounce of her strength to make her mouth move. "Who are you?"

Anger flashed in those eyes. "I take it he didn't tell you about me. How typical of him." She was not impressed as she studied her, as her mouth twitched with a coy smirk that had Celeste shaking beneath her leathers. "I definitely thought you'd be prettier."

"Who are you?" Celeste demanded. Her fingers trembled. If she could just reach Truth-Teller—

"I wouldn't do that, if I were you," the Illyrian plucked the dagger from Celeste's sheath and twirled it between her fingers. "I can't believe that that bastard gave this to you. This knife is a legend amongst our people," her gaze darted behind Celeste, searching for any trace of her wings. " _My_ people. You're not one of us."

" _Who are you?_ "

She curled her fingers around Truth-Teller's obsidian hilt. "The female that Amael ran to whenever you broke his heart. You don't deserve him, you know. I don't know what he sees in you."

Celeste's eyes widened. Her name was on the tip of her tongue. _Nylla_.

The Illyrian smiled. "So he _did_ tell you about me."

Those talons dug deeper into her mind. Darkness crept in and filled every crack and every crevice. "Don't scream," Nylla warned. Celeste did not know what she was looking for as she sifted through the Princess's memories. "Ugh. You're his _mate_? How awful it must be for him to be tethered to someone so weak. Did you know how easy it was to slip into your mind and take over? How easy shattering you would have been had the High Lord not stepped in and stopped me?"

 _Daemati_. The word clanged through her.

"Indeed I am," Nylla flipped Truth-Teller into the air, then caught it deftly between her fingers. "It's a rare gift, especially for an Illyrian. It's a shame you didn't inherit it from your father. Maybe then you'd have seen me coming—could have stopped me."

"You're working with the Mortal Queens."

Nylla snorted. "Cauldron, no. How stupid do you think I am?"

 _Very_.

She bared her teeth and snarled at her. "The Mortal Queens aren't our problem," Nylla said. "The Illyrians—our ranks were depleted during the war against Hybern. A thousand soldiers, gone, just like that," she snapped her fingers for emphasis. "We can't afford to fight again, least of all on your behalf."

Celeste's voice was raw. "You aren't supposed to know I exist."

Her grin was feral. "Did you know," Nylla began. "That the quickest way to break into Amael's mind is to fuck him?" She flared her wings open wide. Nylla reached behind her and tapped at the thick, boney frame that jutted from between her shoulder blades. "Touch him here, and you'll have him on his knees. But you wouldn't know that, would you?"

"Shut up," Celeste spat. Her body strained, but the talons would not ease their grip on her. "How _dare_ you—"

A sob cracked out of her as Nylla's siphons flared. She had three of them, Celeste noted. A sparkling purple stone of the back of each of her hands, and one in the center of her chest. The power that rumbled inside of them… Celeste felt it crackle against her bones. She was certain that they splintered beneath that rage, that roiling darkness that Celeste had thought only she and her father capable of.

 _Out_ —she needed to push Nylla out. Amren had taught her how—

"You _can't_ push me out," Nylla crooned. "You're too weak, and daddy isn't here to save you."

"What do you want?" Celeste asked. "Why are you here?" She tried to flex her fingers, but they would not move. Nylla's hold was too tight.

"I want to save my people," Nylla said. She tossed Truth-Teller into the air again. "Like I said, the easiest way to slip into Amael's mind is to fuck him. The first time I took him to bed… Imagine my surprise when I slipped into his mind and discovered that the High Lord had a daughter," Nylla's face contorted with lethal calm. Gone was the stunning beauty that Celeste knew had drawn Amael to her. "A daughter, no less, that was being hunted by the Mortal Queens."

Celeste's mouth would not move no matter how hard she tried. A tear rolled down her cheek. _You used him_.

"No," Nylla snarled. "Amael came to me because he wanted to forget about you. I did nothing to him with the intent of learning his secrets, but the moment his shields were down, I couldn't help myself. He was practically shouting his thoughts at me."

Nylla stalked towards her, the thread between them growing taut. Celeste whimpered. "Amael believed they would find you, and he was ready to go to war. So brave, your mate," she tossed Truth-Teller into the air. Caught it. Tossed it again. "He overheard Rhysand tell Cassian to prepare the Illyrians— _us_ —for battle. I can't let that happen."

 _He's your High Lord. You have to fight for him_.

"But if there's nothing to fight for, Princess, then I suppose there'll be no war," Nylla caught Truth-Teller and gripped the knife in her hand. She did not throw it again. "The Mortal Queens are hunting you, and you alone should pay that price. The rest of us shouldn't have to suffer when the solution to this mess is so simple."

Celeste thrashed against the magic's thrall. She rallied her power, her darkness and ice and fire. It would not come to her. The damper inside of her was sealed, and Nylla would not let it loose.

"I can't let you forge that key should the Queen's get their hands on you, and I won't let my people go to war—not for you," the blade flashed in Nylla's hand. "It's nothing personal, Princess, but your life isn't worth more than the Illyrians who will die trying to save you."

 _Out_ —push her _out_ —Celeste had to push her _out_ —

Truth-Teller sank into her stomach with that same lethal efficiency that Azriel had taught her to wield. Perhaps he had taught Nylla, too. She plunged the blade in to he hilt, and she did not balk at the blood that stained her hands. The Illyrian had done this before.

Nylla twisted the blade, grinding it against bone and severing flesh and muscle.

Celeste screamed.

"Be quiet," Nylla snapped. She dug the knife in further, until her knuckles were pressing into the wound. "I told you—"

Her wings flared. Nylla lifted her chin, listening for what Celeste could not hear. She cursed.

Celeste's blood was pounding in her ears, and she could not breathe. The pain—she had never felt anything like it. She could not bear it, not as Nylla ripped Truth-Teller from her gut and let the ancient blade clatter to the ground. Blood gushed from the wound, and darkness that was not her own swept in to lay claim to her.

Shadows skittered across the ground, racing for her. Searching.

Nylla gripped Celeste by her fighting leathers. "You'll tell no one I was here," she snarled. "If you're not dead before they find you, you'll take my name to your grave. You do not know who attacked you."

The Illyrian-steel talons released her mind as Nylla threw her to the ground. The sob that broke from her was little more than a wet plea for air, for her mate, for someone to find her and save her. Nylla was right—she _was_ weak—and there was nothing she could do as the Illyrian vanished into a pocket of rippling darkness.

She did not hear the deafening roar of outrage that shook this land to its core.

Shadows gripped her, and Celeste was swept into oblivion.


	27. Twenty-Seven.

His father had just returned from Velaris when Amael felt it, the sharp pain that speared through his abdomen with such intensity that it sent him crashing to his knees. Both Azriel and Cassian reached for him, the latter snarling for Amael to tell him what was wrong. His father gripped his shoulder, his scarred fingers squeezing so tightly that the metal scales of Amael’s armor were bent and twisted out of shape.

 

Something snapped inside his chest; a fracturing so deeply rooted that Amael felt it in his soul. The scream that cracked out of him—his roar was so deafening that it shook the Spring Court to its very core. Azriel and Cassian cursed, but Amael did not hear them. Not as he flung out his shadows and sent them searching, as he lifted a trembling hand to his chest, and as that bond inside of him began to fray.

 

“Celeste,” Amael rasped. He lifted his eyes and met his uncle’s gaze. “The mating bond—it’s breaking. I can’t—I can’t _feel_ her. Something is wrong.” Amael placed his palm over his heart as if that would stop it from shattering. “Something is wrong.”

 

Cassian shot to his feet, his siphons flaring as he turned to study the courtyard. The Princess—she was not there, and Cassian could not sense her. He launched himself into the air with a mighty flap of his wings, shooting skyward until the manor was a sparkling spec of stone beneath him. His hazel eyes scanned every inch of land, every inch of Tamlin’s home, until—

 

The Illyrian speared for the ground, faster than a bolt of lightning poised to strike the Earth. Amael was on his feet the moment that Cassian had begun his descent, his wings beating hard to lift him into the air before he lost sight of his uncle. If Azriel followed, Amael did not know or care.

 

He had watched her enter the garden; had listened to her quiet laughter until she and Elain had ventured too far into the greenery for Amael to hear them. He should have followed. The Spring Court was not their home, he did not know what lurked around every corner, and Amael should have never let Celeste leave his sight. Rhysand had ordered him not to.

 

What he beheld in that plaza—Amael dropped from the sky so quickly that his stomach rolled. He and Cassian landed together, Amael’s knees popping as he hit the ground with enough force to shatter the cobblestones. They were smeared with blood, and Celeste was lying in a pool of it. Her fingers were stretched across the stones, reaching for the shadows that Amael had sent to find her. They flickered near the edges of the plaza, raging like a dark wildfire that was ready to consume the world.

 

Cassian swore as he carefully turned her onto her back. He pressed his calloused fingers to the slender column of Celeste’s throat, feeling for the sluggish pulse that beat there. He swore again. “Find _someone_ ,” Cassian barked, lifting his gaze to look at Azriel. “Anyone who can heal her. Now.”

 

The Shadowsinger did not speak as he winnowed from the garden, his eyes on Truth-Teller as he vanished. The ancient blade would always strike true, and it had. Azriel would slaughter who had done this; would carve them apart with that blade until there was nothing left but dust and bone and blood.

 

Amael could not breathe. He could not move. His mate lay motionless on the ground as Cassian tore at Celeste’s fighting leathers. He ripped away the scales in a way that revealed the wound and nothing more. Blood gushed from her abdomen and stained his hands, his siphons, his own leathers. Cassian’s curse was vicious—a promise to kill who had done this to her.

 

“Don’t just stand there,” his voice cracked as he placed his hands over the wound. Celeste groaned beneath the pressure he applied there. “Either check on Elain, or help me.”

 

His aunt lay sprawled across the cobblestones. Amael’s eyes cut towards her, but a few brief moments of observation told him that Elain was still alive, her chest still rising with breath. There was no injury to be seen, no blood or cause for concern, and so Amael dropped to his knees next to Cassian.

 

Her eyes fluttered as he reached for her. “Celeste,” Amael whispered. He lifted her head into his lap, his fingers moving through her hair and pulling it away from her face. Her skin was ashen, her pale lips speckled with blood. “Celeste, can you hear me?”

 

“Amael,” her voice was nothing more than a whisper of icy air. “Amael.”

 

“I’m right here,” Amael touched her face, her neck, her cheeks. He wiped away the blood that spilled through her lips with his thumb. His fingers shook. “You’ll be all right. Cassian—he’ll take care of you, and my father went to find a healer.”

 

Celeste’s eyes opened enough that he could see the glazed look in them. “Elain.”

 

“She’ll be fine, too.”

 

Because she was conscious, and because Cassian did not know how long she’d say that way, he asked, “Who did this?” His niece blinked at him as though she did not understand the question; as if the answer lie in some clarity she did not have. “I need you to tell me who did this.”

 

She swallowed. “I can’t.”

 

Cassian’s upper lip curled over his teeth. “What do you mean, ‘you can’t?’ Didn’t you see them?”

 

“Yes,” Celeste blinked again, her eyes remaining closed for a moment too long. “They’re daemati.”

 

Amael sucked in a breath as that bond between them unraveled. “They ordered you not to give their name,” he said. Celeste nodded once in confirmation. “Had you met them before? Do we know them?”

 

“You do,” Celeste shuddered beneath Cassian’s hands. “The girl from the Steppes.”

 

His blood ran cold inside his veins. A dull roar filled Amael’s ears as he exchanged a glance with Cassian, who snarled his demand for clarification. “Nylla,” he rasped. “Devlon’s daughter. She—”

 

No. No, she would not do this— _could_ not do this. Nylla did not know about Celeste, that she was alive, that she even existed. Rhysand had wiped her from the memories of everyone in the Night Court except for his Inner Circle. Celeste was their best kept secret; one that Amael had planned to take to his grave if ever necessary.

 

The feral growl that escaped from Cassian had Celeste lolling her head towards him. “Are you certain?” he asked. “Nylla is a war-lord’s daughter, Celeste. You have to be sure before I rip that bitch into pieces.”

 

“She’s a daemati,” Celeste repeated. Her breaths became shallow as she looked at Amael. “She got inside your head when your shields were down. She knows about the Mortal Queens. She wanted to protect her people.”

 

 _She got inside your head when your shields were down_. The words clanged through him like the blade of an Illyrian sword.

 

His fault—this was _his_ fault. Amael had let this happen, and his mate was dying because of him; because of his own stupidity. If Nylla had rifled through his head, she knew everything—had seen everything. Every thought, every desire, every fear. She knew that Celeste was being hunted, that the Illyrians would soon be called to war in order to keep her safe. She knew about the Queens and the key and Celeste’s power; her inability to always control it.

 

In all his years, Amael had never cried, but tears were hanging from his lashes. “I—”

 

The thread between them grew agonizingly taut, enough so that Amael doubled over and clutched his chest. A sharp breath rasped out of him as Celeste closed her eyes. They did not open again, not as Amael shook her shoulder, nor as Cassian slapped his palm across her cheek.

 

“Shit,” he cursed. Panic flared in Cassian’s eyes as he shifted closer, his wings drooping into the blood beneath his feet. “ _Shit_. Don’t do this to me, Celeste. Don’t you _dare_ do this to me. I am not about to bury or burn my niece, do you understand that? I’m not doing it,” Cassian slapped her again. “Open your gods-damned eyes and look at me, or I’ll tell Rhysand about that time we—”

 

Amael stopped listening. He stopped breathing. The bond between them continued to fray, and Amael decided that if Celeste should slip away from him, he would find some way to join her. A life without his mate was not a life at all, and he did not want it.

 

He pulled his fingers through her hair. _Stay with me_ , Amael thought. He sent the words down that bond; wrapped his power around that dying light inside of him and anchored her to this world with everything he had. _Just stay with me_.

 

If she heard him, Amael did not know.

 

Cassian was still screaming at her when Amael blinked out of his stupor. His hands were shaking. He wanted to tell Cassian to stop yelling at her—to stop hitting her, because the gentle slaps against her cheek would not rouse her into consciousness. Celeste was clinging to their mating bond by a single, tattered thread; or perhaps he was clinging to her—Amael was not certain. He could not feel her lingering at the other end.

 

It happened so fast that Amael had not sensed it.

 

Power surged through the garden as the High Lord winnowed into the plaza. Tamlin appeared from a pocket of wind and sunshine, the smell of fresh-cut grass encasing him as he stormed across the cobblestones and knocked Cassian out of his way. The Illyrian snarled at him in warning, but he did not stop him as Tamlin studied Celeste, his fingers prodding at the wound.

 

“Can you heal her?” Amael’s voice was as broken as the heart inside his chest.

 

Tamlin did not look at him as he held his hands above Celeste. “I can try.”

 

His hands began to glow as Tamlin’s power flowed between them. Celeste did not move as his magic caressed her skin, as it delved into the wound to assess and heal the injury. “The other— _Azriel_ —he returned to your city to fetch Rhysand and Feyre.”

 

Neither Illyrian missed Tamlin’s near slip-of-the-tongue. _The other bastard_ , he’d begun to say, and then he’d had the nerve to think better of it.

 

Cassian dragged a calloused hand down his face. “I hope you’re not afraid of the dark,” he said. “Rhysand will turn this place to ash until he finds the bitch who did this.”

 

“I know where she is,” Amael murmured. He did not take his eyes off Celeste as Tamlin healed her. “She’ll have run to her family’s estate in the mountains. Devlon’s wife is there most days, and Nylla visits when it suits her. I’d imagine she’ll think she’s safe there.”

 

“She attacked Rhysand’s child,” Cassian said. “There’s nowhere on this Earth she’ll be safe.”

 

Amael lifted his head and met his uncle’s gaze. “She attacked my mate,” he countered quietly. Calm—such lethal calm burned in those words and in his eyes. Cassian winced. “There will be nothing left by the time I’m through with her.”

 

Tamlin shifted onto his haunches when nothing remained of Celeste’s wound but a pink scar across her abdomen. “That’s the best I can do,” he said tightly. “She’s out of any immediate danger. Feyre, I’m sure, can heal her entirely when she arrives.”

 

He was not lying. Amael felt her soul reignite at the other end of their mating bond. Celeste did not wake, but the color returned to her cheeks. Tamlin snapped his fingers and the blood disappeared from her skin, her leathers, the cobblestones.

 

It was in that same moment that Lucien winnowed into the plaza. He was panting, his russet eye wide as he spun back and forth between his slumbering niece and wife. “She’ll be fine,” Tamlin told him. He waved his hand towards Elain. “Tend to your mate.”

 

Lucien did not need to be told twice. He dropped to his knees near Elain.

 

Tamlin rose to his feet. He rallied his power, preparing to winnow himself away before Rhysand and Feyre could destroy this place, but Cassian did not let him. He stepped in front of the High Lord and tucked his wings in behind him. “You healed her.”

 

A single, terse dip of his chin. “Yes.”

 

Cassian, stone-faced, held out his hand in offering. Amael wondered if it pained him. “Thank you.”

 

Tamlin eyed it warily, every hateful word and snarled retort hanging in the air between them. A muscle ticked in Tamlin’s jaw as he took Cassian’s hand and gripped it. “She’s a brat,” he said. “But she’s a child. I wouldn’t have let her die.”

 

“She isn’t a brat,” Cassian replied stiffly. “She just doesn’t like you. Take it personal—Celeste likes everyone else.”

 

The corners of Tamlin’s mouth twitched with the threat of a smile. “Must be an Archeron trait.”

 

As if her name were a summons, darkness rushed in like a drop of ink into water. Tamlin had enough sense to look mildly concerned—he enjoyed this garden, and he knew that Rhysand would destroy it. He snatched his hand away from Cassian and winnowed from the plaza just before his fellow High Lord appeared like a gods-damned storm of night.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Authors Note: This was one hellacious chapter that I am completely frustrated with, but if I stare at it for another minute, I’m going to throw my laptop across the room. But at least Tamlin healed Celeste, so there’s that.
> 
> Different note: Guess who got engaged last night?


	28. Twenty-Eight.

Amael knew better than to interfere when Rhysand winnowed into the plaza. The darkness that leaked from him was suffocating. Tendrils of the blackest night spider-webbed through the garden like uplifted tree roots, and even Cassian, who had witnessed death in its truest form, winced as his High Lord stormed over the shuddering cobblestones. Rhys dropped to his knees by Celeste, and Amael did not fight him when Azriel gripped his arm and hauled his son to his feet.

 

The Shadowsinger considered winnowing them away, if only to avoid Rhysand’s inevitable explosion, but Amael would not have stood for it. He may have moved from Celeste’s side so that Rhys and Feyre could tend to her, but he would not leave his mate. Azriel knew this. He knew that if he tried to whisk him away into the shadows, Amael may very well kill him for it.

 

Shadows flickered at the clawed tips of Rhysand’s wings as he pulled Celeste into his arms. He drew in a breath through his nose, his broad shoulders tense beneath the material of his fighting leathers. His fighting leathers, Amael realized, not the immaculate black jacket and pants that he usually favored.

 

He had come here ready for a fight; to slaughter who had done this to his child.

 

Rhysand touched Celeste’s cheek with trembling fingers. Perhaps the color had returned to her pallid skin, but she was cold. “Who did this.”

 

It was not a question. Neither Amael nor Cassian could yield to his blatant demand for an answer. The voice of their High Lord, of Death and Night incarnate. Amael had never heard such a thing, but the pure, predatory power in Rhys’ tone…he could not fight it. “Nylla,” he and Cassian said together. The latter continued, “Devlon’s daughter.”

 

Starless midnight rippled through the plaza. The moonflowers surrounding the wrought-iron bench vanished into glistening black dust. “You’ve been training her how to fight,” Rhysand growled. “Why wasn’t Celeste able to defend herself? And _you_ ,” his eyes guttered as they pinned Amael in place. “Where were you? Why weren’t you here to protect her? Your orders were to—”

 

“He was with me,” Cassian interrupted. He shifted into a fighting stance, his hands within casual reach of his weapons as Rhysand turned to him. “We were training, and I gave Celeste the morning off. She was tired. Shecame here with Elain, and I didn’t let Amael follow them. If you’re looking for someone to blame, blame me. It was my fault.”

 

A lighter darkness flitted through the garden before Rhysand could snap at him. Feyre appeared from a pocket of star-kissed night with Nesta and Mor in two, their hands clasped tightly together. A cry escaped through her lips, and Feyre staggered across the plaza before falling to her knees next to Rhys.

 

She reached for Celeste, but Rhysand kept her wrapped in his arms. “She’ll be all right.”

 

“Tamlin healed her,” Cassian’s voice was hardly above a whisper. Nesta stood in front of him, her fingers clenching and unclenching at her sides. She studied him with a lethal calm to determine whether or not he himself had been injured. “I’m fine.” Cassian pressed a kiss to her brow, and Nesta noted the way that his bottom lip quivered.

 

The High Lord was careful as he stood, Celeste balanced in his arms. He cradled her against his chest as though she were nothing more than an infant. Feyre rose with them, her hand on their child’s shoulder and squeezing gently. She and her mate turned to face Azriel, who did not balk from Rhysand’s wrathful stare. “Winnow me to her room,” he said. There was no room for debate, and his tone still held that same demand that Amael could not yield from.

 

Apparently, his father couldn’t either.

 

Azriel stepped towards them. Instead of reaching for Rhysand, whose power continued to leak from him in rippling waves of darkness, Azriel took Feyre’s trembling hand between his scarred fingers. They vanished into mist and shadows, and Amael was left standing in the plaza with Cassian, Nesta, and Mor. He turned just in time to see his uncle whirl on his heels and vomit into the withered bushes.

 

Nesta, to her credit, coaxed him through it with rough pats on the back.

 

**********

 

He did not let himself consider the things that may have happened in this room as he laid his child on the bed. It reeked of Amael’s scent, and the blankets and sheets were pulled away from both sides of the mattress. Feyre must have smelt it, too, because she crinkled her nose and perched herself on the edge of the bed. She took Celeste’s hand and squeezed it, her brows furrowed with concern.

 

Rhysand paced along the far wall of the bedroom. Windows that were covered with billowing black sheets stretched from the floor to the ceiling. Thecurtains blocked out most of the sunlight, and they were perfect for denizens of the Night Court. In another life, perhaps Rhys might have thanked Tamlin for being so considerate.

 

In this life, however, he would thank him for saving his child.

 

“We’re taking Celeste home,” he said. Rhys folded his hands behind his back as he moved. His wings had disappeared to accommodate for the small space inside the bedroom, and he had managed to reign in his power. Feyre did not look at him, but Azriel monitored him carefully. “if that child could hunt her down and break through a High Lord’s wards, so could the Mortal Queens. She’s no safer here than in Velaris, and I will not—”

 

“Please,” Feyre murmured. Exhaustion pulled at her. “Can you not do this right now? Just—sit down.”

 

Rhysand lacked his usual grace as he spun towards her. “Do what?” he snapped.

 

Feyre lifted her head and glared at him. She would not shy from that tone, that power. “ _This_ ,” she flung out her hand gestured towards her mate. “Pace, plot, and rage. She nearly died, Rhysand, and you can’t even bother to just sit with her.”

 

“I _know_ that,” Rhysand snarled. If he noticed Azriel stalking closer, his spymaster angling himself between them to defend Feyre if need be, Rhys did not acknowledge it. “It’s because she nearly died that I can’t just sit here and stare at her. I should be hunting Nylla down. I should be carving her into pieces until there’s nothing left of her but dust, then dumping her into Devlon’s lap and catching them both on fire. I should be ripping off her wings, and—”

 

“Stop.” Feyre begged.

 

She let go of Celeste’s hand and rose from the edge of the bed. Feyre crossed the room in three quick strides, then cupped Rhysand’s face between her palms. His nostrils flared at the contact, but she did not pull away. She did not bulk from his fury.

 

“You are not the only one who loves her, Rhys,” Feyre said softly. She felt Rhys wince beneath her hands. “She’s my child, and if you think for one moment that I don’t want Nylla dead, you’re wrong. But Celeste needs us, Rhys. She needs you.”

 

His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “Nylla nearly killed her.”

 

“I know,” her voice dropped to a whisper as she brushed her thumb across his cheek. “But you can plot her execution later. Let Cassian and Azriel hunt her down. Let them peel the skin from her bones and do with the rest of her what they will, but stay here,” Feyre tapped her index finger against his temple. _Stay here_.

 

He looked as if he still might argue, but the sudden rustling that came from the bed had them both turning on their heels. Celeste had curled onto her side, her hand gripping her stomach. Her eyes fluttered, and as if they had not just spoken of tearing Nylla limb from limb, Rhysand was at her side only a heartbeat later.

 

Rhysand smoothed back her hair as she stirred, then smiled when she opened her eyes and looked at him. “Hello, my darling girl.”

 

Celeste nuzzled into the palm of his hand. “I missed you.”

 

“If you wanted to see me,” he said. “You certainly didn’t need to get stabbed.”

 

Her eyes opened even further. “Nylla,” she rasped. “Aunt Elain—”

 

“Elain is fine,” Rhys promised. “Lucien is tending to her. As for Nylla, she’ll be dealt with.”

 

Celeste turned her head away, her gaze drifting to the patterned blanket she was draped beneath. “She’s a daemati,” she said, and it was shame that crept into her tone. “She got through my mental shields, and I—I couldn’t move. She held me there, and after she stabbed me, she told me to take her name to her grave.”

 

Her father was careful as he slipped into her mind. Rhysand saw and heard every word, insult, and belittlement shared between them. His lips curled back over his teeth. “It was Nylla who attacked you in Velaris, not the Mortal Queens. They sent that army of attor, but only because Nylla’s stupidity is what alerted them to your presence in the first place.”

 

She nodded.

 

Rhysand turned to Azriel. “Find her,” he raged. “Take her to the Hewn City. Do with her what you will, but leave enough of her intact for me to—”

  
Feyre cleared her throat in warning.

 

The High Lord glanced at Celeste and winced. “Just don’t kill her. Not yet. Lock her in a warded cell so that she can’t winnow away, and keep your shields up. Take Cassian and Amael with you. It’ll be a good learning experience for him.”

 

Celeste cringed. “You’d make him torture her?”

 

“I don’t think I’d need to make him do anything,” Azriel countered softly. Shadows curled around his body as he rallied his power to winnow. “His fury rivals your father’s.” As if an afterthought, Azriel crossed the room and dropped a lingering kiss to her forehead. “I’ll tell him you’re awake.”

 

He began to vanish through a pocket of shadows, but Celeste sat up and reached out a trembling hand for him. “Wait,” she said. Azriel stopped entirely and frowned at her. “I…I’m sorry. Truth-Teller—”

 

Azriel procured the blade from a summoned tendril of shadow. “It still belongs to you,” he told her. “But I’m borrowing it.”

 

She winced. “To use on Nylla?”

 

“Yes,” Azriel murmured. He lightly touched the top of her head before stepping away. “I’ll send Amael in to see you before we go. You’ll have to excuse him if he’s fussy. It’s a male thing.”

 

Celeste sank back down into the pillows beneath her. “Don’t keep him long,” she said. They did not miss the subtle plea in her words. Azriel nodded at her, then vanished into shadows without a word. Celeste curled onto her side. “How come you’re not going with them?” she looked up at Rhys and quirked her head.

 

He shared a glance with Feyre, who was standing at the of the bed. She smiled, though it did not reach her eyes. Rhysand took Celeste’s hand and squeezed it. “Because I’m your father,” he told her. “I can think like a High Lord later. Cassian and Azriel can handle it.”

 

Celeste wriggled closer. She lifted her head only to rest it on Rhysand’s thigh, then closed her eyes as he combed his fingers through her hair. “I like when you’re just my father,” she mused. “When you’re the High Lord, I have to share you.”

 

Rhysand’s heart sank, just a bit. “You never have to share me,” he said. “I’m all yours, my darling girl. Always.”

 

Feyre’s smile turned knowing.

 


End file.
